Page 100 of Play Nice

“Where did you…who…”

“I don’t remember where I heard it,” she said, shrugging. “But I thought about it today. I’m sorry you’re sad. But you should have left it alone.”

“Cici. What’s going on with you?” I asked. I hadn’t yet exhausted my tears. “Why are you speaking to me like this? Why did you say that thing earlier. About me…me dying in the house.”

She looked up at me. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m going to die here, too.”

—

My phone rings. It’s Helen.

“She made it up,” I say. “The book is fucking bullshit.”

“I’m doing well, thanks for asking,” she says.

“That whole exorcism, that’s not how it happened. We were outside for all of it. I didn’t come in because I couldn’t come in. She locked us out there. For hours. There were no ambulances. No one was bleeding out of their ears or clawing out their eyes. That didn’t happen.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, Clio.”

“Why would she write this? Why would she lie?”

I hear her breathing. I hear her smoking. I don’t hear an answer.

I try another question. “How did she die?”

She sighs. “If I were the sentimental type, I’d say she died of a broken heart. But technically, she had a heart attack. Years of drinking. High blood pressure. Stress. She’d get sober and then—”

“Let me stop you there, because if she loved and missed us so fucking much, if she was so brokenhearted, she would have gotten sober. Stayed sober.”

“It’s not that simple, Clio. It’s not that easy.”

“She could have reached out. She could have apologized.”

“She was ashamed. She thought you’d be better off without her. Your father convinced her of that.”

“Yeah, see, this is why I can’t talk to you. It’s not all his fault. Everyone’s so quick to point fingers and blame someone else. Dad blames Mom. You blame Dad. Mom blamed the demon. Why can’t anyone just give me the truth?”

“Clio, I asked you. I told you I didn’t want to damage your relationships or cause chaos. You said it wasn’t my call.”

“Why was she here? When she died, why was she here at Edgewood? And don’t tell me it’s because she wanted to feel close to us.”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Roy.”

“Okay, yeah. For sure. I trust the demonologist will have some honest answers for me. I’m sure he’s a real straight shooter. Where was Roy when she was here dying?”

“What do you want, Clio? I don’t think it’s the truth. I think it’s a version of the truth you can live with. A version of it you can sell yourself. You’re curious, you’re open, but up until the point it’s ugly. I’m sorry that you’re struggling. I’m sorry that I can’t give you whatever it is you seek. You’re asking me why Alex was at the house. Why are you at the house?”

The lights flicker, and in the brief but total darkness there’s hot breath on the back of my neck. An ugly truth.

“I’m sorry, too,” I say.

I hang up, pull my knees to my chest, close my eyes and wait for morning.

28

Hannah’s baby hates me, which is fine, because it’s mutual.

Morpheus cries whenever I go near him. He screams now as I push his stroller up a hill in Green-Wood Cemetery.