Page 92 of Play Book

“They’re just rich, spoiled mean girls!”

“Okay, but what did they do?”

“They called Mom names. They said she was probably a crack whore and…” Her voice breaks. “…I’m probably going to be one too!”

“Oh, Ally.” I lean over and wrap my arms around her, something she hasn’t let me do before now. “Sweetie, that’s not true. Your mom was an addict, but she couldn’t help it. Addiction is a disease.”

“I don’t even know what a crack whore is!” she sniffles against my shoulder. “And they laughed at me when I said that.”

I stroke her hair, hating everything about these girls.

I have to fix this.

I don’t know how, but I will.

“Where was Rhea’s mom?” I ask.

“Her parents went to bed. We were down in the basement watching movies. Then the movie ended, and they started picking on me. And someone called me a bastard because I don’t have a dad.” She starts to cry in earnest, and all I can do is hold her.

“Why did you make him leave us?” she gulped between sobs. “Why did you do that?”

Ah, shit.

This isn’t the time for this conversation.

But what choice do I have?

Since I absolutely can’t tell her the whole truth, I’m going to have to pick and choose enough pieces of it to make it believable.

“Ally… your dad wasn’t a good guy. I don’t know what your mom told you, but he used to hit her. She had bruises all over her body. And then I came home early from school one day and…I caught him hurting you. You were only two, and I loved you so much, I snapped. I beat the crap out of him. I’m sorry if that hurts you, to know that I’m the reason your dad left and that he was an abusive ass, but there was no way I was going to let him hurt you.”

Ally’s quiet for a long time.

So long I’m afraid she’s fallen asleep.

But then she stirs, slowly pulling away and lying down again.

“Mom told me she had bad luck with boyfriends.”

“Yeah, your father wouldn’t have been my first choice for her. Or you.”

“Mom was always sad,” she whispers. “I heard her on the phone once, and she said she was lonely. That if it wasn’t for me, she would have ended it. I didn’t understand what that meant, but now…” She swallows and lifts big hazel eyes to meet mine. “Did she mean she wanted to die?”

Fuck fuck fuck.

How do I answer that?

Is honesty the best policy here?

Why can’t we have these conversations in therapy instead of in the middle of the night?

“I don’t think she wanted to die, exactly,” I say carefully, “but if she was sad and lonely, she probably just wanted to not feel that way anymore.”

“She left me,” she says sadly. “So now I’m the one who’s sad and lonely.”

Jesus.

If that’s not a shot straight to the heart, I don’t know what is.

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