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“Oh, you’re home!” She sits up, this vacant smile on her face like she actually has the capacity to care about me.
I simmer, watching her beckon me forward with a crooning finger. She points to the big chair next to her.
“Come sit,” she says.
I don’t move a muscle. “Are you feeling any better, or what?”
“I am. Bruce has been an absolute darling through my latest troubles. He’s friends with some very good doctors. I’m feeling hopeful this time. I think I’ll be just fine. Please don’t worry yourself sick about me.” She catches me staring at the glass in her hand and smiles, holding it up. “It’s just a mocktail.”
I hold in a snort.
Her face falls. It’s sick how self-absorbed she is.
“Oh, and thanks for calling to check on me while I was trying not to choke on my own vomit. I know how busy you are, but the very notion that you’d take time out of your day for little old me...”
There it is.
My lip curls at the sarcasm, the guilt trip for something I’d never do even if I had a rifle held to my head.
Her nasty smile disappears behind her glass of green venom. She takes a long, fortifying sip, draining it like she needs the liquid courage to bring more hell.
I should turn around and walk the fuck out right now.
She slams the glass down on the stand next to her, though, glaring like I just scooped up a handful of pool water and threw it in her face.
“Well?” she bites off. “Are you just going to stand there like a lump? Don’t you have anything to say about why you ignored—”
“I kept you breathing, Ma,” I cut her off. “My obligation ends there. You’re the only one who can fix your shit.”
“So judgmental,” she snarls. “You think I asked for this, Christopher? I asked for yourcomfort,Mr. Man. A few kind words, a hug, a 'glad you’re still breathing, mommy...' It wouldn’t kill you.”
If only she knew.
“Fucking please. Haven’t you bilked enough sympathy from Bruce already? I thought I’d have to resuscitate him too when he was having a heart attack over you laid out on the floor. Looks like all the money in the world can’t buy a quack who gets you off the sauce, huh?” I motion to her empty glass.
She smirks, amused and still angry, which tells me she’s pretty wasted.
Yet still sober enough to rear up in her chair, pulling the towels tight around her frame to keep them from slipping.
I twist my head away in disgust.
Fuck that.
The last thing I need is a look at her plastic boobs, the only thing she’s bothered investing in over the last decade.
“What? Am I that repulsive?” She snaps her fingers, begging me to look at her again.
“Ma, shut it. You’re not thinking right. What else is new?” I force out, stunned that I have to state the obvious.
“Oh, okay. That’s right. I’m too old for you. Too related.” She heaves out a sigh. “I’m sorry I’m going senile in my old age, Christopher. But, you know, I’ve noticed you’d rather fuck your stepsister and tear this family apart, piece by piece, wouldn’t you?”
Her words shove me back like a gunshot to the ribs.
I’ve put up with these tirades my entire fucking life. I learned a long time ago that the only good defense is to turn around, leave her stewing, and walk the hell away.
Only, it seems impossible to do that when she’s accusing me of a high crime that isn’t any crime at all.
She picks up her glass and twirls it, staring at it like she’s contemplating new ways to blame me for her dumpster fire of a life.
