I didn’t need to be reminded of any of it. While I’d managed to put the horrible memories of our mother in a box and lock that away, Ben believed that I was in denial and that the best way to deal with our past traumas was to talk about them in detail. He sometimes called me to ask questions like: “Was I in fifth grade when Mom broke my arm or was I older?” or “Remember that Thanksgiving when Mom put rat poison in the apple pie?” And he had an excellent memory—a proverbial steel trap.
I was quick to cut these conversations short by saying, “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t remember.”
But it worked both ways, didn’t it? Because when I countered with the good times, fried shrimp on the beach and dance parties in the kitchen and learning to draw, my brother claimed I embellished most of them.
“Are you still there, Ali?” he asked me now.
It was pointless to argue. Our mother was, and always would be, a monster to him.
“Rubin’s vase,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Do you remember when Mom taught us about negative space? She showed us that illustration, Rubin’s vase. You know, you look at it and some people see a vase, some people see two faces.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see what’s that got to do with—”
“And she asked us what it was a picture of, and we argued because I saw one thing and you saw another, but they were both there all along.”
“I still don’t—”
“I choose to see and remember one version of Mom and you choose another. Who’s right and who’s wrong?”
“Your denial is dangerous,” Ben said. “Not just to you. But to your girls too, if you let that woman in your home.”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m not in denial,” I said. “I haven’t forgotten how horrible she can be. But that was a long time ago. She was struggling, Ben.”
“You need to stop making excuses for her.”
“I’m not making excuses. You should’ve seen her in the hospital. She’s changed—”
Ben barked out a venomous laugh. “People don’t change, Alison. Not like that.”
“Look, I’ve gotta go, Ben.”
“You can’t just—”
“We’ll talk soon,” I promised, then hung up.
I looked over at the puffy white snowman beside me. “Well, that went exceptionally well,” I told him. He just stared at me over the top of his stuffed-carrot nose, his head lolling slightly to the left, his coal eyes cruelly mocking.
SIX
ISTOOD UP, HEADED DOWNthe porch steps and across the lawn to the little outbuilding I used as my printmaking studio. I’d just pop in for a minute to get my head on straight before going back to the cookie decorating. Surely Mark would understand.
We called it the barn. It was painted red, with a big sliding door on the front. The previous owners had used it for horses, and sometimes when it rained I was sure I could still smell the horse shit. We’d replaced the flooring, had the walls insulated and electricity and windows installed, along with a woodstove and a chimney. We’d even added skylights. I’d painted the walls white to make the space feel bright and open, like a blank page.
I pulled the door closed behind me, flipped on the lights, felt my body relax. I wished I could lock myself away in there for the rest of the night. But I knew I couldn’t stay long—gingerbread men were calling—so I just sat on the rolling stool at my big worktable, sipping my wine while I looked at my recent drawings and prints. There were none of Moxie or her Halloween adventures. Nothing of what I wassupposedto be working on, what I was under contract for.
What I’d been most captured (okay, maybe a little obsessed) by lately were insects, primarily honeybees. I’d done a whole series of prints of bees where they didn’t belong: in bathtubs and teacups, on eyeglasses, perched on a stuffed bear. I thought these prints were some of the best work I’d done, with their very fine detailing showing each tiny hair, each gorgeous cell of the wing. But when I brought them around tothe galleries and shops where I sold my work, no one was interested. The bees did not sell. Moxie did. That’s what buyers and store owners wanted. More Moxie.
“Fucking Moxie,” I mumbled, taking another long swig of wine.
I was tired and, lightweight drinker that I was, already a little tipsy.
I didn’t drink often. It was something I’d been very careful about, knowing alcoholism runs in families. But a glass of wine now and then couldn’t hurt, I told myself. And I’d promised myself long ago that I’d never let my girls see me drunk. If it ever happened, I swore, the drinking would be over forever. Not another drop.
I looked around the studio. The few sketches I’d done forMoxie Saves Halloweensat buried in a corner. HowwasMoxie going to save Halloween? Izzy had been throwing ideas at me for months, the most enthusiastic I’d seen her. Some of her suggestions weren’t half bad, but nothing had quite clicked for me. I sighed as I pulled out one of the drawings—Moxie sitting beside a carved grinning jack-o’-lantern.
