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I watched the floor like I was walking death row. Every step I took toward the kitchen filled me with more dread, and I didn’t understand why. Everything looked the same. The walls were still the same contemporary shade of light gray, the French furniture was still fair and heavy, the silk crème couches were still a hundred grand a piece, and the paintings on the wall still cost more than anyone could ever dream of having in their bank account.
A gurgling sound came from the kitchen and I tensed up.
It’s nothing. You heard nothing. Move on.
Another step, and then another. I wanted to be a coward. I wanted to go up to my room and not deal with it. Not again. It could not happen again. How bad was it that I suspected my mother’s life was in danger, and all I wanted to do was bury my face in a pillow and replay the last day, especially the part where Trent broke all of his rules and sucked my mouth like I was the most delicious thing on the menu? I knew the answer to that one. It was very bad. Inexcusable, actually.
“Khhstttt, ehhss, pppfff…” The gurgling continued. This was not a drill. It was not my sick imagination. I threw my backpack down and ran to the kitchen. My hair covered my face, as if to protect me, and I blew it away, chanting breathlessly, “No, no, no.”
My mother was lying on the floor—why did she always do it in the kitchen? Why not in her bathroom? Why did she always need an audience?—foam trickling from her mouth. On the table above her were dozens of empty pill bottles, with a rainbow assortment of pills scattered like sad, blown dandelion fluff. A pile of separation papers sat atop the table, already signed by my father. “Shit.” I sucked in a breath, running over toward her.
Jesus Christ, he was here. He told her.
I rolled her onto her side and cupped her cheeks, staring into her vacant eyes.
“How many did you take?”
She shook her head, not answering. I was pretty sure the main reason for her lack of response was that she was halfway gone. I plucked my phone from my back pocket, my hands shaking.
I forgot about the cute girl who’d handed me her heart, and her dad who’d rewarded me with hidden kisses. I forgot about laughing with Rosie and Emilia and scowling at a drunken, albeit harmless Mel. This, right here, was my real life, and I shouldn’t have allowed myself to forget it even for a moment.
My mother lurched forward, retching. The only thing to come out of her mouth was more foam.
“Throw it up, throw it up, throw it up,” I repeated sullenly. Last time I’d stuck a finger down her throat when I was only twelve. I was really hoping to keep that incident a one-time thing. My mother’s eyes rolled in their sockets. I hated the world once again. I pushed my mother onto her knees with the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder and shoved a finger down her throat, but nothing came out.
“How long ago?” I asked, even though it was futile. She couldn’t answer. She wasn’t even all the way conscious. Not like last time. Jesus, Mom.
“Please, Mom, please. Just…throw it all up. Please.” I didn’t know what shook harder, my voice or my hands. Both were out of control, and I felt myself slipping beyond. Beyond the control I’d held over myself.
Did she not love me?
Did she not care?
I pushed and shoved, but she just quivered like a leaf, going through some kind of seizure. Finally, the call went live.
“Nine-one-one, what’s the emergency?”
I broke down in tears, giving her our address. The operator took our details and sent in help. Even nine-one-freaking-one couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
“MY MOM TRIED TO KILL herself.”
The words haunted me as I sped through the streets of Todos Santos toward Saint John’s hospital. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew exactly what I was doing by rushing to her side. Her dad was probably there—he fucking better be—I thought angrily. I was the first person she’d called, and I wasn’t going to put a time limit on my stay there. The minute I’d received the call, I dropped Luna at Camila’s—I didn’t want them in the penthouse in case Edie wanted to crash there—and told her I’d need at least a few hours to sort through some personal shit and let her know when I’d be back.
Poor Edie.
Poor, poor Edie.
While my child’s mother was avoiding responsibilities at all costs, Edie tried to take care of everyone in her world while watching her youth slip between her fingers. I loathed myself for having assumed the worst about her. That she was a spoiled-ass kid who tried to steal money for the thrill of it, or just to be a cunt. Edie wasn’t a brat. She was dealing with a very ill mother and, apparently, was being blackmailed by her father, too.
