“Oh God, you scared me,” I started. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“Where were you?”
“What are you still doing up, Izz? It’s late.”
“Where were you, Mom?” she repeated, urgent. She was dressed for bed: a T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, her thick dark hair in a ponytail. But there was something off about her face, her eyes.
“I told you, I had dinner with a client… a couple of clients.” I was trying to remember the story.
“Were you with Hayes?”
Fuck.
“Who?”
“Hayes Campbell. Were you with Hayes Campbell?” She was not asking it gently. She was not being polite. Sheknew.
And suddenly I could feel the black cod with miso threatening to make a reappearance. “Yes. He’s a client of mine. We had dinner.”
“Aclient? Don’t lie to me, Mom. I saw you. You werekissinghim. Isawyou.” Her tears were welling. And I could feel it, her pain, in my knees.
This is not how it was supposed to happen, in the confines ofthe narrow corridor with the walls closing in and her childhood photos taunting me and me playing defense. Not this way.
“Izz…” I’d begun to sweat.
“Oh my God. Are youdatinghim?”
“I’m not—”
“You’re dating him? You’re dating Hayes Campbell?!”
“Honey, I’m notdatinghim. We’re… we’re friends.” God, what a crock! I was standing there with his sperm still swimming inside me, and attempting to convince her otherwise. And my daughter could see right through me.
“Gross. Gross. Gross, Mom.” She was visibly shaking. “That is so gross! How can you be dating Hayes Campbell? You’reold! You’re liketwicehis age!”
If she’d wanted to hurt me, she’d succeeded.
I reached out for her shoulder, and she pushed me away. Her tears were pouring, and I got the impression that if she could have hit me, she would have.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Were you just not going to tell me?”
“Isabelle … I’m sorry.”
“I love him.”
“You don’t love him, Izz. You love the idea of him.”
She looked at me, her eyes wild with fury. “I. Love. Him.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
She began to ramble, snot running from her nose, her lips catching on her braces. “I heard the car, because the TV wasn’t on, so I heard the car, and I looked and it looked like him, but I was thinking, ‘No way.’ There was no way that was him, because he was supposed to be in London until later this week when they come for the AMAs, andEllen, but itreallylooked like him and I searched it, and there are paparazzi shots of him landing at LAX today. And it’s him. It’shim. And he’s in our driveway and he’s kissing you. He’s kissingyou. He pickedyou. And I hate you. I hate you I hate you…”
The way she’d said it, like it was a competition between us, made me numb. “Izz, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, crazed. “Did you…? Are you…?” She trailed off, unable to articulate.
I did not know what sordid thoughts she was entertaining. But they were probably accurate.
