Page 21 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“I wanted to make sure you understand that your mother can’t be forced to do a lot around the house,” he says warily. “She’s not healing the way we’d like.”

I choke on a laugh. “As far as I can tell, the only thing my mother does consistently is watch a lot of reality TV. But I’m happy to turn it off if that’s an issue.”

He glances away. “She seems to be under the impression that she’s not healing well because she’s doing too much. And yes, she does need to be walking around, but within reason.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. “Aside from putting on makeup to come here, I haven’t seen her exert any effort whatsoever. She doesn’t even open the door for the dog.”

“Look,” he says, his tone diplomatic, “I realize this is stressful, but it’s really worked out well for you both, timing wise, and I think if you looked at this as an opportunity—”

“In what possible way has this worked out well for me?” I ask, aghast.

“Well, she needs help, and it sounds as if you’re between jobs and need a place to stay, so—”

I laugh out loud, the sound half humor and half explosive anger. I slap my purse on the desk between us. “Do you see this bag, Doctor Sossaman? It’s Hermès. I bought it a month ago for four grand because I had a half hour in the Tokyo airport and was bored. I’m not ‘between jobs,’ and I don’t need a place to stay. I have a very expensive apartment in New York City sitting empty, so I can be here to help my mother. You should perhaps consider not taking everything she says at face value.”

His mouth opens, closes, then opens again.

“Right,” he says. “Okay then. I just thought I could help.”

“You can,” I reply as I walk out. “Make her better so I can get back to my life.”

It isn’t his fault, I know. My mother enjoys living in a fictional world in which I am always the loser she’s saddled with, and she enjoys bringing other people into the delusion. But is there really any hope of winning over someone who would tell a story like that about her own kid? Probably not.

The light drizzle turns torrential during the drive home while I try to work out what I’ll say to her. I’m outraged—outraged enough that I could see myself taking off, telling her and Jeff they’re on their own. But who will take care of Snowball if I leave? And who will secretly ogle Liam? Those jobs aren’t going to take care of themselves.

When we reach the house, Liam’s guys are running supplies to their trucks. I guess that means Liam’s done for the day, which I find strangely disappointing.

My mother frowns at the rain. “You need to go ask Liam or one of his guys to carry me.”

I fight what would undoubtedly be a malicious smile. Sandra and I need to probably have a more serious chat about her bullshit, but I know exactly how to punish her in the interim. I believe this is what experts refer to as natural consequences.

“Actually, Mom, Dr. Sossaman is concerned about the way you’re healing. When I explained how much time you spend sitting around, it became clear to both of us what the real culprit was.” I’m not certain it was clear to Dr. Sossaman, but I’m sure it would have been if he hadn’t been so busy blaming me. “So, no, I’m not asking Liam. I’ll help you on the stairs and you can use the walker for the rest.”

“But I’ll get drenched.”

“Then you’d better walk fast,” I reply. “Just imagine all the stories you can tell Harold about how terrible I am now.”

The prospect does seem to cheer her up. She manages to get to the house relatively quickly, and I lend her my shoulder as we climb up the steps, which is the closest to affection either of us has perhaps ever come.

She releases me as if my skin burned her as soon as she’s reached the top step. “Your shampoo smells god-awful,” she says, hobbling into the house.

It shouldn’t surprise me. She’s always found a way to wedge some crushing insult where I least expect it. When I asked if I could wear makeup, she said I should worry about losing some weight first. I came home once with short hair, and she told me I’d gotten rid of my only good feature. I can’t recall a single time when she wasn’t doing her level best to let me know I was despised.

I walk to the back window and stare out at the desolate backyard, remembering how hard things were here after my father left. I started to expect the worst of people because I got the worst at home, and there’s been very little in my life to counter that. Other than Liam.

He was different from everyone else back when he was texting me. He was different this morning, too, washing the dog though I’d been awful to him. Cooing “there’s a good girl” in that soft voice. Then again, terrible people are capable of being kind to dogs. Case in point: Snowflake now sleeps on my bedroom floor because I don’t have the heart to shut the door on her.

My father was kind like that, or so I thought. He’d appear in my room early in the morning, saying “want to go on a secret mission?”, and sometimes it was just driving to Santa Cruz for donuts and jumping into the ocean for an icy swim, but my favorite was when we’d go down to Main Street in the pouring rain, clad in my raincoat and boots, to help place sandbags in front of the stores when the river was flooding.

It made me feel like I belonged somewhere. It left me certain the world held more good than bad.

I’d almost forgotten there was a time when I didn’t hate it here.

13

EMMY

Liam and I no longer correspond directly, but through Stella I learn that I’m supposed to come in and approve the ceiling before they start installing the new seats. I’ve got breakfast with the mayor first, but that’s not the reason I put on the suit I look best in—short skirt, the jacket perfectly fitted. When my mother asks why I’m dressed like an escort as I get ready to leave, I tell her it’s because I’m still young enough to pull it off.

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