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I knew that he’d cheated on my mom with another woman. That he’d had a lengthy affair. That’s why my mom had kicked him out the day he died. But I also knew he’d been nothing but amazing to me. He was the one to teach me how to ride a bike. To take me to school every day. He was the one to wipe my tears when I was sad and make me laugh when I was angry and tuck me back into bed when I had nightmares.
He read me stories about princesses and castles and dragons, and always changed the plot so that the princesses saved themselves from the fire-breathing villains.
He spent the extra buck on Band-Aids with the Wonder Woman branding. He made me his special mac and cheese with crushed Doritos whenever I had the flu because he thought I liked it, when really, I liked the attention. I liked his standing in the kitchen doing something silly for me.
I liked being loved.
Yes, he was a drunk, with vodka being his drink of choice. I remembered the bite of alcohol when he’d pressed his lips to my forehead when he’d kissed me goodnight.
I’d liked the sharp bite of it. It smelled like home. And I refused to believe that my home had become my hell. That he’d done something to me.
By the time I emerged back from the maze, my head pounded with unsolved questions.
Mrs. B was waiting for me in her usual rocking chair, swaying back and forth, her lip curved in a smile. She was wearing two coats in September, but that was brittle bone disease for you. She seemed lucid, exceptionally calm. Juliette handed me a pair of tweezers, tapping her cheek silently.
“Want me to weed out your whiskers?” I dragged my chair close to hers, wiggling my brows. It was best to pluck Mrs. Belfort’s chin whiskers under bright sunlight. She said that I’d be getting them too when I became her age, but the thing about being twenty is that you don’t actually understand the concept of getting old. You know it’s going to happen to you eventually, but you don’t believe it. Not really.
I plucked her hair for a while before she said, “Love is art. Some people shut their eyes and refuse to see it. Others visit every museum in the world. Which type do you fall under, Jesse, my dear?”
I blinked, staring at the maze. “I think I’m capable of seeing the beauty in art.” I swallowed, looking up at her and plucking another misplaced white hair floating from her chin.
“Good. Good. Because that’s the only way you’ll get to my age with no qualms. I know what you see when you look at me, Jesse, and I know it mustn’t look appealing to you. But understand this—I have no regrets. I lived life fully. Wholly. I loved freely, without doubt or jealousy. Whoever that boy was…” She tilted her newly-smooth chin to the maze, her smile spreading to her cheeks. My heart lodged in my throat—she remembered Bane? “That boy cares for you. Be smart and care for him back. No one should live a lonely life.”
She looked down at me and smoothed my hair lovingly. Like a mother would. Like Pam should. “Yes, I remember him, Jesse. I have a condition, but I’m still here,” she said softly.
I nodded. I was going to tell her I would not let him go. That I would keep Roman for as long as he’d stick around. But then she opened her mouth again.
“I know I have Alzheimer’s.”
Her words rattled something inside me. Maybe I wanted to believe that there was no connection between the Mrs. Belfort I knew and loved and the woman who had lengthy conversations with her dead husband at an empty dining table.
I swallowed before I answered, “I’m so sorry, Juliette.”
“I also know that I’m dying. I’m not well, Jesse. Yet no one talks to me about it. They think I don’t understand, but I do.”
Tears filled my eyes, but I didn’t let them loose. It wasn’t fair to Mrs. B.
I remembered how much I hated it when people stole my tragedy thunder. After The Incident, I despised every single person I came across who cried for me. If I didn’t cry for myself, neither should they. I remembered Detective Madison Villegas at the police station, the night I got out of the hospital and was supposed to give my official statement.
She’d stood in the corner of the room with tears in her eyes, watching as I’d fed them laconic lies that didn’t match the mountain of evidence, as if it was her I was hurting.
“What can I do to make it easier for you?” I asked, plucking another stray hair and letting it fall on Mrs. B’s wooden porch. I put the tweezers aside and took both her cold hands in my warm ones.
