She spits on the floor, actually spits, a tiny missile of rage.
“You were always the bargaining chip,” she says, her voice ragged. “The only thing I had to sell! So don’t come crying to me because look what you have as a result of my hard work,” she hisses, gesturing to the mansion around us. “A quality education, a palace to live in, and most of all—the man. I couldn’t even keep my own husband!”
Kent steps forward, and this time he’s not calm. His jaw flexes, and his fists clench at his sides.
“You’re so far off your rocker that it’s fucking ridiculous,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You’ve twisted the facts until they’re entirely unrecognizable. This is a complete farce, and I’m done,” he says, voice like a closing door. “You get nothing. Not the apartment, not the health insurance, not the spousal support. Your access is gone, starting now. You want to destroy Mary Kate? Congratulations. You destroyed yourself, too.”
Jeannine lets out a scream, high and animal, and lunges at him then. She flies across the room like a fury, her nails out and her face in a mask of rage, more animal than human.
“You fucking piece of shit!” she shrieks.
I’m so surprised that I freeze, but Kent has incredible reflexes. He catches her by the wrists, fast and precise, and pins her arms to her chest. She thrashes, trying to bite him, clawing at his face, but he holds her off like she’s a feral cat, arms outstretched, expression disgusted.
I watch, frozen, as my mother tries to claw the man I love to shreds. It’s like watching a puppet with its strings cut, all jerks and spasms and wild, hopeless rage.
“Fuck you!” she screams. “You fucking incestuous perverts! You Daddy-fucking little whore! You dirty old man with a tiny micro-penis between your legs! I only married you because I couldn’t work at the country club any longer! I couldn’t take those bitchy ladies with the pearls who always treated me like I was second class! I had to do it! I had to!”
The hate Jeannine spews is horrific, and I literally put my hands over my ears to block out her voice. She spews some more, a tirade about an ex-boyfriend from years ago, as well as her own mother, and even her building super out in San Jose. When shefinally sags, spent, Kent lets her go. She crumples to the marble, hair wild, chest heaving.
I pull my phone from my pocket, fingers shaking, and dial 911.
“Emergency services,” says the dispatcher. “What’s your emergency?”
“My mother is having a mental health crisis,” I say in a trembling voice, and the words sound like someone else’s. “She attacked my—my partner. Please send someone.”
They ask the address. I give it.
By the time the police arrive, the three of us are in a tableau: Kent by the fireplace, hands folded, not a hair out of place; me kneeling on the floor, knees cold against the stone, watching my mother rock back and forth in the fetal position while keening something incoherent.
The officers are polite but brisk. They take statements. They put Jeannine’s arms behind her back, gentle but firm, and stand her up. She looks at me, and for a second her face goes soft—almost pleading. Then the mask returns.
“You’re nothing without me,” she spits, over her shoulder. “I’ve orchestrated your whole life, missy. You’ll regret this.”
The door closes behind them. The house is silent.
I stay there, on my knees, staring at the empty space where my mother stood.
Kent comes to me, kneels, and wraps me in his arms.
I let him hold me.
I let myself cry.
The clock ticks. The world goes on.
Do I feel sadness for my mother? Yes. Do I love her despite her twisted personality and sick sense of “righteousness”? Again, yes. But Jeannine was filled with hate. She struck a deal out of greed. Out of her desire for a luxurious lifestyle. When her husband actually fell for me, she wanted out. But there were no outs because it was a done deal the moment she signed on the dotted line.
Am I sad? Absolutely yes. Am I disappointed in my mother, and her turn for the worse? Yes. But for the first time in my life, I’m free. There’s nothing hanging over my head about my relationship with Kent Robinson. There’s nothing holding us back, and as the alpha male takes my hand in his, I look into his stark features with tears in my eyes because this is the man I’m supposed to be with … with or without my mom lurking in the wings.
23
A GETAWAY TO A LAND FAR, FAR AWAY
MARY KATE
The balcony tiles are still warm from the afternoon sun, the heat radiating up through my bare feet even though the sky has slipped from gold to lavender. It’s not a balcony, not really—more a little wedge of stone, a lip hung off the side of the palazzo suite, barely enough space for a bistro table and two iron chairs, one of them already hosting a puddle of half-melted granita. Lemon, bitter and sweet, pooling at the rim of its glass, the sticky runoff painting the metal in translucent yellow streaks. I drag my toe through the condensation on the tile, absently, as I watch the city rearrange itself for night.
Below, Rome is a tangled net of narrow streets and terrace gardens, every window catching the last dregs of light and burning it in stripes across the old, ochre walls. A Vespa screams past, somewhere three or four floors down, the engine’s whine chased by laughter and the sharp rattle of a bottle uncorked. At the end of the block, a church bell sounds—not the grand, tourist kind but a thin, stubborn peal, a single note that skips up the rooftops and out over the river. It is, against all logic, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
