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“Mama,” I say, willing my body to relax, ignoring my throbbing cheekbone. I haven’t called her Mama since I was four years old.
“You’re awake. Good.” She peels me off her and puts two feet of distance between us on the bed. Her eyes meet mine and they’re filled with worry. She’s wearing no makeup, her face a shiny sheen. A recent chemical peel? A new overnight moisturizer? Who knows. She looks like a baby owl, without her fake eyelashes.
She reminds me of Aunt Karen, her sister. Mom makes fun of Karen for “letting herself go,” even though Aunt Karen runs 5Ks and is a defense lawyer in Iowa, Mom’s home state. Karen doesn’t do Botox or chemical peels or liposuction or any of the other procedures Mom has used to keep herself young.
Young looking, at least.
Right now, she resembles my aunt just enough that I throw my hands over my face and burst into tears.
Mom sighs, her hand on my knee.
“You were screaming about a rope, Lindsay,” she says softly, leaning forward. “Were you dreaming about hanging yourself?”
“God, no.”
“Because that would be so selfish,” she adds.
There’s nothing quite like a mother’s love.
In her hand, I see a white smartphone, her long, burgundy fingernails gripping it like a weapon. “Should I call Dr. Coulter?” she asks.
“Dr. Who?”
“Dr. Coulter. Your therapist from the island.” The expression on her face makes it clear she thinks I’m acting like a petulant teen. I have no idea who this Dr. Coulter is, though.
“Dr. Coulter—oh!” It hits me. “You mean Stacia. No. No! No, Mom. I don’t need her.” Why does everyone insist on calling Stacia the second I have a problem?
Mom makes an incredulous sound.
I press my hand against my heart. “I’m fine.”
“You’re anything but fine, Lindsay. I heard those screams. You were still dreaming when I walked in, clawing at your mouth.”
“Where’s my security detail?” I ask slowly, ignoring her words. If I challenge her, she’ll turn it all around and make it my fault, so why bother. I know the drill. Mom cares about Daddy’s political career. Until the incident four years ago, she cared about my future.
Now it’s all about damage control.
And I’m the damage.
“Drew? I told him I’d handle this. It’s my first chance to see you.” She shakes her head slowly. “It’s a shame it has to be like this.”
I draw in a shaky breath. My covers feel like handcuffs. “Right.” I shudder, trying to slough off the remaining arousal that came from the beginning of the dream, and the horror that ended it.
“I’m glad to see you,” I say automatically. Robotically. She gives me a sharp glance but her face relaxes into something close to a smile. I see she’s had her lips done recently. Is that where she was? At a spa for the kind of treatments where you don’t want to be in the public eye for a week or two while the swelling goes down?
I’ve checked off a box with my comment. She leans forward and gives me a kiss on the very same cheek she slapped. “I’m so glad to see you, too. See with my own eyes how you’re doing.”
“What time is it?” I fight the urge to ask her why she couldn’t come yesterday, or visit me at the Island, or—a thousand ors she could have done, but didn’t.
I don’t ask because I already know the answer.
And it hurts.
“Five thirty in the morning,” she says, stroking my hurt cheek. “You need more beauty sleep.”
So do you, I think. Like, a thousand years.
Something clicks for me. “You’re here because of tomorrow’s meeting?”
