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My jaw hangs open, practically clanking onto CeeCee’s glass desk, and she giggles uproariously at my expression.
“Have fun, Georgie,” she says, smiling brightly. “As long as you never lose sight of the fact that you’re there to get me lots of compelling and fresh content for Rock ‘n’ Roll—and, perhaps, something spectacular for Dig a Little Deeper, too, if the stars are aligned. As long as you do that, then whatever else you might do along the way, simply because you’re young and gorgeous and you only live once, is your own goddamned business.”
Chapter 18
Reed
As my driver takes us down the long, tree-lined driveway of my mother’s facility, I look out the car window and let my mind drift. Not surprisingly, it lands on Georgina. Again. The same way it’s been doing this entire past week. Once again, I find myself thinking about Georgina’s flushed cheeks as she told me off in front of my house. And then her flashing hazel eyes, and raised middle fingers, as she drove away in that Uber.
I can’t believe that crazy woman ditched my ass, even though she knew it was in her stepsister’s best interest for her to stay and kiss it. Not to mention, for her to come inside and suck my dick. And yet, hotheaded, sassy, glorious Georgina Ricci got into the backseat of that car and left me in her dust, her two middle fingers riding sky-high, and her integrity firmly intact. And I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.
“Mr. Rivers?”
I blink and realize we’ve arrived at the front of the mental facility—a posh place in Scarsdale, an affluent town about forty-five minutes outside the City, that boasts a “bed and breakfast”-type vibe for its patients. I check my watch while unlatching my seatbelt. “This is going to be a quick visit this time, Tony. So don’t drive off to buy a pack of cigs or anything. I want you here when I come out, ready to haul ass to La Guardia.”
“I’ll be here.”
Inside the lobby, I show my identification to the attendant, per protocol, even though everyone knows me. After signing the log, I leaf through the past few weeks of signatures, making sure my mother’s best friend since childhood, Roseanne, has visited as frequently as our contract requires. With relief, I discern Roseanne has, indeed, held up her end of our bargain. And also that my saint of a little sister visited yesterday with my little nephew in tow, exactly as she told me she was planning to do as the three of us strolled through the Central Park Zoo earlier this week.
“You don’t have to visit my mother,” I said to my sister in front of the elephant enclosure. “She’s never even acknowledged your existence. Fuck her.”
“Reed,” my sister chastised. “Don’t say that about your mother.”
“I’m just saying you owe her nothing.”
“It’s not about me owing something to her. It’s about me doing something nice for a lonely lady in a mental hospital. I often do what I can to brighten the day of a perfect stranger, so why not your mother? You’ve mentioned several times she doesn’t get a lot of visitors, only you and that ‘friend’ of hers you have to pay. And you’ve also mentioned she never stopped loving our prick-ass father, despite their nasty divorce and everything else.”
“She was always his doormat. I don’t know if you can rightly call that ‘love.’”
“Well, either way, I think it might be nice for a lonely lady to get to see a cute little baby who has her ex-husband’s DNA inside him. The same DNA as her own beloved son. Maybe seeing my baby will remind her of happier times in her own life.”
I felt a mix of emotions right then, during that conversation with my sister in front of the elephants. First off, I felt shame at my secret knowledge that the words “beloved son” probably didn’t apply to me, at least if you were to ask my mother. But, mostly, I felt awed by my sister’s selflessness. Not that I should have been surprised, really, since compassion is her defining characteristic. But, still, as I stood there with my sister and my sweet little nephew, watching an elephant dunk its thick trunk into a trough of water, I had this distinct thought: How the hell does this girl have Terrence Rivers’ DNA inside her, the same as me, and yet, unlike me, she doesn’t have a single asshole bone in her body?
I close the facility’s logbook, having finished my inspection of it, and return it to the attendant at the front desk. And then, I make my way down the familiar hallway toward Mom’s room—the biggest one at the facility, with the best view of the garden. But when I poke my head inside Mom’s room, she isn’t there.
