Kyrie’s babbles become more insistent. Our little princess is awake and hungry, and there’s a fine line between hungry and hangry with her. One I don’t feel like crossing. “You’re on Kyrie duty today. I have to get ready.”
“Finn is off today. He can watch Kyrie, and I can go with you.”
“Go,” I push. “I’ll be fine.”
Jamie drags me against him for the kind of kiss that promises so much more as Kyrie screams riotously through the monitor, and I laugh.
This is my life.
And I’m actually falling in love with it. It’s time to face my mother so I can take what’s mine and make it permanent.
Sabrina Cabot Murphy introduced me to one of the partners in her law firm months ago. She knew, if it came to it, I’d need a shark on my side. Someone who specialized in family law, who also happened to be vicious enough to help me fight for my sister, whatever it takes, so Kyrie could have a better life than what she’ll get with our mother.
Until now, I truly believed that was going to be the key to navigating this standstill between my mother and me. I was shocked yesterday when I received the call from Charles Baker. Even more so, when he told me Mom’s demand.
But now, over four months after I flew into Kroydon Hills for what I thought was going to be a quick trip, I sit in a private room inside the Philadelphia Women’s Correctional Facility with Charles, her public defender, by my side, waiting for my mother. It’s awful to realize how little I want to be here. How the anger and disappointment has turned more toward hate than love. At least for her. If it was just for Mom’s sake, I wouldn’t have even come. But it’s not just for Mom. I’m here for Kyrie.
And a few minutes later, as my mother is escorted in by a corrections officer who looks a little bit like Arnold SchwarzeneggercircaTerminator 2, I resent her even more. Resent having to be here and having to clean up her mess, even if that mess did bring me to Kyrie. She looks thin, thinner than she did the last time I saw her, and she’s never been a woman who could keep weight on. Her blonde hair seems stringy andbroken, kind of like her, and the circles under her eyes make me think she hasn’t slept in weeks... maybe months.
But none of that makes me feel bad for her.
Not when I think about how easily she could have killed Kyrie.
The man I will be referring to as Arnold gives my mother a look, the kind that tells me she’s a problematic inmate, before nodding at Charles and walking out of the room. Mom immediately reaches for my hands before Charles clears his throat, stopping her. He nods to the mirror that’s no doubt two-way and gives her some kind of nonverbal warning that has her shrinking in her seat.
“Look at you, Ashton. You look so pretty, honey.”
“Hi, Mom.” God, I want to feel something besides anger, but I just don’t. I can’t. The anger is too overwhelming. “Charles said you wanted to talk.”
“I’ve wanted to talk for months, Ashton Elizabeth. But you haven’t accepted any of my calls.”
“Oh please, don’t try to full-name me like you’re the righteous one here, Mom. Just tell me why I’m here, so we can get on with this.” I shove my hands under the table and rest them on my lap, hoping to hide the way they’re shaking. She doesn’t get to see my anger, not like this. I refuse to give her anything. Not ammunition. Not sympathy. Nothing she can use.
Mom’s eyes dart to Charles before focusing back on me. “You don’t know why you’re here?”
“I know what Charles told me. That you were ready to strike a deal but only on the condition that I come in and speak with you.” I glare at Charles, still pissed I agreed but so unbelievably ready for this to be over. “Please, Mom. Just tell me.”
“How’s Kyrie?” she asks, running her index finger over her thumbnail, picking at a blood-crusted cuticle.
I refuse to let her see the smile thinking of Kyrie typically brings to my face. She doesn’t deserve that. She hasn’t earned it.
“You mean the sister I didn’t even know I had, until I walked into the hospital, and a nurse and social worker introduced me to her and said either I could take her or they’d give her to a stranger?”
Mom sinks back in her chair, and bites that thumbnail between her teeth, waiting.
“She’s good. Healthy...” I choose my words carefully, unwilling to give her more than she deserves. “Happy. She’s starting to babble, and she’s hitting all her milestones. We had her six-month checkup, and the pediatrician said she’s perfect. Like she was never even in an accident, where her crackhead mother drove, while high, into a tree, and the car flipped.”
Okay, maybe that was cruel.
Mom’s eyes narrow. “We...” She ignores the crackhead comment and goes right to the digging for information. “You and who else? That Murphy boy? Finn?”
My chest vibrates with a silent laugh. Did the entire world think there was something going on between Finn and me? “First, Finn isn’t a boy, Mom. He’s a man. A good one. He’s a surgeon now.”
“And you’re what? In a relationship with the grandson of the former president of the United States?” She was always jealous of the Murphys. Guess some things never change. “I’d say you’re overreaching, Ashton.”
This bitch.
“Yes, Finn is one of my roommates, but no, I’m not in a relationship with him,” I tell her, unsure of how much leeway to give but knowing I need to keep myself in check and move this along.
