Page 14 of The Malibu Secret

"Cedars," she says. "ER. I'll explain later. But could you come and get me?"

Cedars-Sinai. Where Cam is still on shift. What if he's the one who treated her? Would he even know who she is? He's only ever seen her in my paintings, never in person or photos. Doesn't matter. I'll have to cancel with him tonight—it's his last night before leaving, but my mother comes first. Besides, maybe I need the distance. He's flying out tomorrow anyway. No point prioritizing him over my mother who actually "needs me" for once. She's never needed me before—always had some loser boyfriend to lean on, one right after another. Never alone long enough to ask me for anything. But now she's calling for help. Cam will understand. Of course he will. He'll board that plane to Sicily tomorrow and forget I exist before they even retract the landing gear.

I sigh into the phone. "I'll be right there." At least I'm not at the shop today. Mom's never been one for patience. If I'd told her I couldn't come until after my shift, she'd be hitchhiking before I hung up, thumb out on the highway, looking for her next temporary savior with a couch and a bottle of pills.

I get to Cedars and see my mother waiting for me in the waiting room, her coat draped over her arm even though it’s fucking July. I don’t see Cam anywhere, of course - I’m sure he’s busy on his shift.

“Mom,” I say. “Let’s go.”

She nods. "Thanks for coming to get me, Tally."

I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. The question burns in my throat: Why not call one of your deadbeat boyfriends? But the image of her empty bedroom flashes through my mind—drawers yanked open, closet bare, not even a goddamn note. Been there before. So I swallow the words, knowing they'd send her running faster than anything. From now on, I'll tiptoe around her moods like I'm crossing a minefield. That's my life now. Every day I'll come home wondering if her shit's still there or if she's ghosted me again. If she even agrees to crash at my place for any period of time. Fuck. No way out of this one.

“Sure, Mom,” I say. “Listen, maybe you could crash with me for awhile?”

To my astonishment, she nods. “Thank you, I’d like that.”

I slide behind the wheel of my new Jeep, Sophie—RIP Jaspress—and steal glances at Mom as we drive to my place. Her face is blank, unreadable.

At my apartment, she does a slow spin in the living room. "Fancy digs, Tal. Arts District must cost an arm and a leg, huh?"

"It's not cheap," I admit. "You can have the spare bedroom. And I actually cook now, so we can save some cash eating in."

Mom's eyes light up. "I know every food bank in the area. Good stuff too—fresh strawberries, potatoes. You cook, I'll forage."

I try not to roll my eyes. Like she'll stick around long enough to make a single food bank run. I need to accept the truth: she could vanish in the middle of the night or while I'm inking someone's bicep. No warning, no goodbye note. Can't exactly handcuff her to the radiator. She's like one of those stray cats that lets you pet it but keeps one eye on the exit. Physically present, mentally halfway gone already.

Mom sits down at the dining room table, running her hand over the distressed grain like she's caressing a lover. "Beautiful table," she says, her eyes gleaming with something I can't quite place. "You always had the eye for beauty, Tally. Guess I'm not surprised that you're an artist."

"Tattoo artist," I snap, my jaw clenching. Maybe she didn't know what I did. After all, growing up, I was just an artist, period. On those rare fucking occasions when Mom got her shit together and somehow convinced a judge to give her custody, she'd marvel at what I created—right before disappearing on another bender. I busted my ass at UCLA, got my BA in Art while working two jobs. I can make canvas bleed with acrylics and watercolors, and I've always been a badass sculptor, but tattooing? That's where I found my goddamn salvation.

"Tattoo artist," she echoes, her voice hollow. "Why did you decide to become a tattoo artist?"

I shrug, my shoulders tight as piano wire. "Not much money being a regular artist, so I took my talent where I could make enough money to eat and pay for utilities. I own the studio down the street." I lock eyes with her. "Used the money the government gave me when Dad was blown to pieces in Iraq to open the shop." I raise an eyebrow, daring her to comment. My blood boils thinking about how she pissed away not just $100,000, which is what I got, but a half-million dollars of death money. Plus the monthly survivor's benefits. All of it gone down her throat while I, the fucking daughter, was smart enough to build something lasting. Then I shake my head, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. I have to stop this toxic comparison shit. She's Mom and I'm me. Two different women, two different choices, one giant fucking gulf between us.

She nods. "I always knew you'd become somebody," she says, her head dropping. "Unlike me. I'm just a hot mess." Then come the tears, and fuck if that doesn't wreck me every time. Only sociopaths and liars claim they can watch a parent cry without feeling like they've been gutted.

"Mom," I say, wrapping an arm around her bony shoulders. "We're both hot messes, so there's that." I exhale, memories flooding back—age 8, 9 and a half, 11, 13, 15—each time CPS yanked me from home because Mom was spiraling again. But they never took me out of the house because I reported her. She was always a disaster, but I'd rather die than report her. I knew what foster care felt like. It was always some busybody neighbor spotting her tweaking in Ralph's, or cops catching her driving wasted. That bitch teacher Ellen Davos called CPS just because Mom missed Parent-Teacher night. Once, her own dealer reported to CPS because she owed him money and he was pissed. But the CPS reporting never came from me. I never betrayed her.

Every single time they took me away, I'd think: This is it. This will be her wake-up call. She'll get clean now. But she never did. Yet here I am, watching her sob in my living room, and some stupid part of me wonders if this time might be different. If maybe she's finally ready to get clean, to return to the piano, where her fingers used to make magic before the drugs stole everything. I’m thinking this time is it, that the last pill she took is the last pill, period, but how goddamn naive is that?

I lean toward her. "Mom? You ready to quit?”

She shakes her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Oh, Tally. I've been clean six months now. But something's wrong." Her shoulders heave with each breath. "I'm seeing things—people. They talk to me. I don't recognize them, but they're always there."

"Wait—six months clean?" I blink, trying to process this. "When did this happen? Why didn't you tell me you were getting help?"

Her face hardens. "That's your response? Not concern about the strange voices and phantom people?"

"Well, that's probably just withdrawal after all those years using."

"Fuck you, Tally." Her eyes flash.

And we’re off. "What? What did I say now?"

"You clearly know jack shit about addiction. I only ever took pills—Oxy, that's it." She wipes angrily at her face. "You never even bothered to learn the first thing about what I was going through, did you? Or you'd know hallucinations aren't part of it."

"I don't understand⁠—"