Page 11 of Don't Tell

“Liar. Are you painting?”

I glance at the unfinished painting in the corner of my room. It has barely taken shape yet, so I can’t decipher the image in my head. “Yes.”

"Good. I think…" She pauses. "She would have wanted to be here — to see what you're creating."

I don’t answer. My throat is too choked up to do so. Marguerite was the first person to believe in me. She bought me my first sketchbook and taught me to mix colors. I was supposed to live with Renée after she died. But no. My mother showed up the week of her funeral and took me away.

I thought it was because she loved me. I learned pretty quickly that it was because I had something that she wanted. My college fund.

"I mean it, Suz. Put it online. The right person will find you, and your whole life will change."

We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. I know she means well, but it doesn’t matter.

"Tell Chad and the babies hi from me," I say before I hang up.

I sit on the bed with the phone still warm in my palm. I draw a long breath.

The phone rings again.Dammit, Renée. I don’t want to talk about this. Not when I’m vulnerable, hungry and on the verge of breaking. Please, not tonight.

The ringing doesn’t stop. I answer without looking at the screen.

"Suzanne." The voice that answers is definitely not Renée’s. I know that voice. I heard it months ago when she screamed at me after I told her never to call again. Sherry. "You’ve been ignoring me all day."

"What do you want?"

"That is not how you talk to your mother." I picture her growling in that ugly way she always does. Her lips would curl downward, and her eyes would fill with so much venom in them that I’d start to wonder if she was really my mother.

“What do you want?” I ask again.

"I'm not well."

"Okay."

"Did you hear me? I said I'm not well."

"I heard you."

“And you have nothing to say to me? I have to get tests done. I could die, and you don’t even care. I don’t expect you to. You never cared about family anyway. Just give me the money I asked for. $10,000 should cover it. I know you have it.”

I don’t even blink. “I don’t.”

“You’re lying. You still have Maggy’s china, don’t you? You have her rings. I know you do. That should fetch at least $5,000.”

I freeze. They’re currently sitting safely in one of my suitcases. Away from my mom’s greedy, sticky fingers. I square my shoulders. I will do anything to protect Marguerite’s things from her.

“Stay away from me. Don’t call again.”

I hang up before she does because I want the upper hand.

She will punish me for this for weeks. She will call Renée. She will tell anyone who will listen that I'm ungrateful, that I think I'm better than her, that money has gone to my head — money I don't have, in a job I'm about to lose for scratching a car.

I cannot bring myself to care today. I put the phone face down on the nightstand. I sit very still on the edge of the bed.

My body is begging for rest. My mind, though? It’s been hijacked. I have not stopped thinking about him — his breath near my ear, his voice cracking when he said my name — and that I leaned in.

Well, he asked me to. What else was I supposed to do?You were supposed to back away and get the hell out of that room.I still have no idea why I let myself remain there for that long. That is a problem.

I stand up.