A Little Too Much

Chapter Eight

IT’S THE FIRST of the month. I go on the first of every month like clockwork so she knows what to expect. Mom doesn’t do great with surprises.

As I climb onto the 9:48 train at Grand Central for the long trek to Bedford Hills, I’m still thinking about what there is in New York City that’s worth seeing. When the train surfaces at Ninety-seventh, I lean my forehead into the window and watch as the city rolls by, hoping that something will catch my eye . . . maybe there’ll be a big flashing sign that says, “You’ve got to see this thing right here that no one else knows about because it’s really cool.”

I don’t see any signs like that, and then we’re in the country: rolling hills and leafless brown trees for as far as the eye can see. I sink deeper into my seat and close my eyes. I have to get up early for these trips. It takes forever to get there and back, and if I’m going to bother at all, it feels like I need to spend at least an hour there, so it’s an all-day thing, for the most part. And I need to be back for work at five.

An hour later I stumble off the train in Bedford Hills. It’s about a mile from the station to the correctional facility and I could catch a cab if I could find one, but, unless the weather’s totally nasty, I usually walk. It takes about a half hour and helps me clear my head before Mom clogs it up again.

When I get to the visitor entrance I tell them, “Hilary McIntyre, here to see Roseanne McIntyre.”

I jump through all the hoops: store my bag in the lockers, walk through the metal detector, sign in, show my ID, sign the paper that says I don’t have any contraband on me and I agree to be searched, then wait.

Mom has to agree to see me.

Ten minutes later they tell me I’m good to go and let me into the visitor room. I take one of the dollars I kept in my pocket to the vending machine and buy an Oh Henry! then find a spot at an empty table near the back of the room.

When she comes through the door, she shuffles over to my table in an orange jumpsuit that hangs off her. She literally drops into the chair across from me, like the act of sitting down takes too much effort. Her cheeks are hollow caves, her skin is patchy and dry, and her long red hair is in a messy, low ponytail with stringy strands hanging loose into her sunken, dull green eyes. I swear every time I see her, she looks five years older. She’s not even fifty yet, but she could pass for one hundred.

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because, in my head, I always see her how she was before she killed that guy and got sent here.

She reaches for the Oh Henry! and peels back the wrapper, biting off a hunk and glancing deliberately at the caged clock on the wall. “You made it,” she rasps in her smoker’s voice.

It’s always the first thing she says, like I’ve kept her waiting.

“Yep.”

She swallows and bites another hunk off the candy bar. A little piece of chocolate sticks to the corner of her mouth and starts to melt. “So how’s McDermott’s?”

Always the second thing she asks. I think maybe she used to go there.

“Good. Jerry is behaving himself for now.”

She crams the last bite in her mouth. “Tips good?”

Always the third thing.

I shrug. “Up and down. Seems like people are getting cheaper. Weekends are usually decent.”

“How is that sister of yours?”

And, always number four.

“She’s good.”

“Still married?”

I slouch deeper into my chair. “She hasn’t gotten divorced in the month since I saw you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And Harry and Max?”

Every.

Freaking.

Time.

Considering her favorite candy bar is Oh Henry! you’d think she’d be able to remember her grandson’s name. “Henri, not Harry, and they’re good too. Getting big. Halloween was last night. They were adorable.”

She frowns, which really isn’t all that different from her usual expression. “I’d know that if I ever saw them.”

“Yeah, well . . .” It’s the same guilt trip I get every time I come, like it’s somehow my fault Mallory’s never comes to see Mom. I don’t tell Mallory when I’m coming because she forbade me to see Mom when I was living with her. I doubt she’d feel different now. She told me a long time ago to forget about Mom. Mallory blames Mom for everything that happened to me at the group home and after. So do I, I guess, but there’s no changing it, so I don’t see the point in holding a grudge.

The truth is, I know it’s probably a waste of time coming here. I know I shouldn’t bother. I mean, it’s not like Mom ever really bothered with me. I was just an inconvenience most of the time. I don’t know if she wanted me or not, but once she got me, she didn’t really seem to care one way or the other. Indifference smarts, coming from the one person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally.

But for better or for worse, she’s my mom—the only parent I’ve ever had. So even though a big part of me is screaming that I should forget about her, there’s a smaller voice that comes from somewhere in my DNA compelling me to keep digging for something deeper—like if I try hard enough, maybe she’ll love me despite herself.

Mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, and splays both hands across her face to hold her head up, like it suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. “You should make like your sister and steer clear of me. I was never any good for you girls.”

I squirm a little in my seat, uncomfortable with Mom’s rare moment of honesty. I’m so used to her shifting blame that I don’t know what to say when she finally accepts some. “You did the best you could, Mom.”

She lifts her eyes but not her head and looks at me from under her stringy hair. “Wasn’t good enough.”

I shrug. “We turned out okay.” For the most part.

She pulls her head out of her hands and looks at me for a long second, as if finally realizing maybe it’s true. Her face looks younger all of a sudden, less haggard, as she straightens her arm and brushes her bony fingers across the back of my hand. “I guess so. You’re a pretty good kid, aren’t you? Maybe I didn’t screw up too bad after all.”

I don’t even know what to say. For some unexplained reason, a wet lump forms in the back of my throat. It’s not like she said she loved me, so why does it feel that way?

A tired smile pulls at her mouth as she draws her hand back. “So, if that’s true, when are you gonna find a man?”

And just like that, the moment is gone and we’re back on track.

I take a deep breath and swallow. “I’m still living with Brett. It’s been almost a year.”

“The model?” she says, her eyebrows rising.

“He’s an actor, Mom. On Broadway. Not a model.”

“But you don’t got no picture,” she says with a skeptical squint. I’m pretty sure she thinks Brett is a figment of my imagination. Somehow it’s not real if she can’t see proof.

“You know they take my phone. I can’t bring it in here.”

She crumples the Oh Henry! wrapper and shoots it basketball style at the trash can in the corner. It misses by a mile and uncrumples itself on the cement floor. “What about cigarettes? Did you bring me any?”

This is the part of the program where she gets in all her jabs to remind me what a shitty kid I am.

“You know we’re not allowed to bring those in either.”

She frowns deeper. “You’d have snuck some in if you loved me.”

Who said I loved you?

The thought springs out of my mind like some demented jack-in-the-box. The scary-clown kind that gives little kids nightmares.

In Mom’s defense, I’ve never told her about anything that happened to me after she got her sorry ass thrown in jail. Maybe that’s why, despite everything, I don’t mind coming here. She never gives me that look I get from Mallory—the one that reminds me she knows all my shit and she feels sorry for me.

“Are they keeping you busy?” I ask, just for something to say.

“Oh, yeah.” She makes a big production of rolling her eyes. “Big trip planned for tomorrow. I’m walking the runway in Paris, then shopping in Monte Carlo.”

I slouch in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. “Sorry.”

We sit in silence for the next fifteen minutes, and the visitor room starts to fill up. The chatter gets louder by the second, which only punctuates our silence.

“You want another candy bar?” I finally ask.

She shrugs.

I get up and buy her two. I come back and drop them on the table, then we sit in silence for another fifteen minutes while she eats them.

“So, I gotta go, but I’ll see you next month,” I tell her when she’s done.

She stands and turns for the door, and I pull myself out of my seat as the guard opens it for her. But just before she disappears through it, she glances at me over her shoulder. “Bye, Hilary.”

The lump is my throat is back. I can’t remember the last time she called me by my name. And the look in her eyes when she said it . . . like it was the saddest word known to man . . .

I head back through security and collect my bag, looking forward to the walk back to the train station.

“WHERE YOU BEEN?” Brett asks when I come through the door. He’s on the couch slipping on his shoes.

I peel off my jacket. “The same place I always am on the first of the month.”

He just looks at me for a minute, then understanding dawns. “Your mom.”

I nod.

“Crazy as ever?” he asks with a smirk.

“She’s not crazy,” I say. Ever since I told Brett about Mom, he keeps thinking she’s in some mental institution or something. “She’s incarcerated.”

He shrugs, then scoops up his gym bag and stands, hiking it onto his shoulder. “So, I heard from Tim about that audition.”

I look up from where I was hanging my jacket on the peg near the door. “And?”

“They’re replacing the pregnant chick after the first of the year, so they’re auditioning the first week in December.”

My heart sinks as I step deeper into the room. “That’s over a month away.”

“Chill, Hilary. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” He squeezes my ass on his way to the door. “Wish I had time for a quickie.”

Something in my gut squirms in a not-so-good way and I slap his hand away.

He grins and pulls the door open. “See you after the show. Your ticket’s on the counter.”

Shit! I totally forgot it’s opening night. Guess my mind has been elsewhere for the last few weeks. “Great. I’ll see you down there. Break a leg.”

He grins over his shoulder and swings the door shut.

I move to the kitchen and pull my phone out of my pocket, dialing the bar.

“Yo!” Jerry yells into the receiver.

“Hey, Jerry. It’s Hilary.”

“Don’t you dare bag out on me,” he warns.

“I’m hacking up a lung here, Jerry,” I lie, barking out a cough. “You seriously don’t want me there.” I need the money, so it’s almost never that I do this. I can’t believe I forgot to ask for the night off.

“You better get your ass better before tomorrow. I need you this weekend.”

“I’ll find some drugs. I’ll be fine.”

He hangs up without another word.

I shower and pull Brett’s favorite dress out of the closet. It’s a black backless number with an asymmetrical hem. The last time I wore it, we had sex in the back of the cab on the ride uptown from closing night of Brett’s last show. I think about wearing no underwear in case he’s planning a repeat performance, but that uncomfortable tightening in my stomach is there again at the thought.

I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.

I pull on a black lace thong and slip the dress over my head, then turn and look in the mirror. This dress is perfect with my butterflies. They’re a slash of color that sweeps up from the waist at the lower right and disappears behind the strap at the top left. I don’t even need any jewelry. “Yep, baby,” I tell the mirror as I adjust the neckline. “You still got it.”

I smooth my kinks back into a loose bun and twist a few corkscrews down the side of my face, blend on some blush, and brush on some mascara, but just as I’m slipping on my shoes, the buzzer sounds for the door downstairs. I go to the intercom. “Yeah?”

“It’s Alessandro.” Mmm . . . that accent. But what the hell’s he doing here?

I press the button for the door latch. “Wait there. I’m coming down.” I grab my bag and my coat, and head for the elevator.

When the door opens on one, I find Alessandro standing just inside the front door. “I thought you might be missing these,” he says, holding up my gloves. “You dropped them when you ran screaming from my company yesterday.”

I take them from his hand. “You did not come all the way uptown to give these to me.”

He shrugs with half a smile. “I was in the neighborhood.” I smile at his repeating my words from the Y back to me, but then his eyes scan down the front of me and there’s something burning in them when they find my face again. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. You’re obviously on your way somewhere.”

“My boyfriend’s show opens tonight.”

His jaw tightens and something flashes in his eyes, but then he holds out his hand. “Let me help with your coat.”

I hesitate, but then hand it to him and turn. There’s a pause before he slides it on and I can almost feel his eyes sweep over my bare back. Something tingles in the same spot that was squirming a little while ago when Brett touched me.

He clears his throat as I turn to face him and pull on my gloves. “Thanks.”

“Let me walk you to the subway.” He places one of those sexy hands on my low back and that tingle is there in my belly again as he guides me to the door.

I shut it down. I can’t want him like that.

I bundle my jacket around me and we walk the three blocks to the subway.

“Have you thought about Thursday?” he asks.

“I’ve thought about it.”

There’s a pause as he waits for me to elaborate. “Any decisions?” he finally asks.

“No,” I say without looking at him.

“You’re not very talkative tonight.”

I keep my eyes on the sidewalk. “Am I ever?”

He doesn’t respond.

We funnel down the stairs into the subway and just make it onto the train before the doors close. I grab the pole near the door and Alessandro steps up behind me, reaching for the bar over my head. “If I make you uncomfortable, Hilary, I’ll go away,” he says low in my ear.

I turn and look at him then, because that spot in my gut tingles again. “Honestly, I don’t know what you make me. But, no. I don’t want you to go away.”

He catches the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes cloud. “I really should leave you alone.”

I don’t know what he wants me to say. He’s right, of course. He makes me feel like that girl again—weak and vulnerable. I can’t be her anymore. I should have told him to go away when he first showed up. I turn and grasp the pole with my back to him. “Probably.”

As we sway with the movement of the train, Alessandro’s body brushes against mine, and by the time we stop at Fiftieth, he’s pressed tight against me. I don’t know whether it’s that I’ve shifted back into him, or he’s leaning forward into me, but whatever it is, what I do know is neither of us is breathing. There’s a palpable charge, like static electricity, with every subtle shift of his body against mine, and when the doors slide open, neither of us moves for a several beats of my pounding heart.

Finally, I have no choice.

“Hilary,” he says as I step away from him onto the platform, and that one word sounds like a prayer. I turn and his expression is guarded. He looks at me with pleading eyes, like there’s something more than my name he wanted me to hear. Like he just poured his heart out and he’s waiting for some response. But before I can figure out what those deep eyes are asking, the doors close, and a second later, he’s whisked off through the tunnel.

Something deep inside me aches as I stand here watching after him, but I can’t ache for Alessandro. Not like this.

THE THEATER IS packed and the air is electric with opening-night anticipation. I feel myself getting jazzed just being here, and I’m not even in the show. I envy Brett so much right now.

I find my seat just as the house lights flicker their warning, and a few minutes later, the first chords of the opening number erupt out of the orchestra pit. When Brett hits the stage a few minutes later, every female eye is trained on him.

Damn, he’s good.

I laugh along with everyone else at the funny parts, and dab at my eyes along with everyone else when that one kid dies. And the older woman on my right actually gasps near the end when Brett strips.

I don’t blame her. He’s spectacular.

And he’s mine.

I smile as the familiar ache settles in my groin at the thought, and I’m relieved that, this time, I’m aching for the right guy. I can’t wait to get him home so I can give him his own private ovation. I don’t know what the hell that was, earlier with Alessandro, but I am so back.