Page 10 of Twice as Twisted

She takes another desperate swig when I reach for the glass, but at last she relents and lets me extract it gently from her hand and set it on the end table. I lift her off my knees, wrap a steadying arm around her, and lead her out of the room and into the bedroom that was Dad’s. The house is Royal’s now, but he and Harper don’t want to fuck in the room where Dad slept. Silly superstitions for silly people who think the dead are something more than worm food.

“I should throw up before I lay down,” Ma says when we’re inside the room. “Let me be sick.”

“You don’t need to throw up.”

“All those calories,” she insists.

I sigh. “Alright. Let me hold your hair.”

“Good idea,” she says, stumbling into the ensuite. She lowers herself gracefully, even in her inebriated state, and gathers her hair. I hold it and watch her bend over the bowl, slide a finger down her throat. When she’s emptied her stomach, I hand her a glass of water and a paper cup of mouthwash. After using them, she opens a drawer and takes out a bottle, twists the top, and tilts it over her palm. A cascade of pills spills into her hand, and my mind loops back. I jump up and steady her hand. I pick out a pill for her, then cradle her hand in mine, tipping it over the bottle to return the rest to their little orange tube.

“I’ll help you lay down,” I say, guiding her out of the bathroom.

I tuck her under the blankets, and she reaches for me. “Stay while I fall asleep?”

“Sure, Ma.” I take her hand and kneel beside the bed, resting my chin on the edge.

“You were always the best one,” she mumbles. “You understand me the way none of your brothers do.”

“I know.”

“You’re such a good listener,” she says, smiling at me with glassy eyes. “Smart too. My little squirrel, gathering nuts of information, storing them for later.”

“That’s me.”

She closes her eyes, tugs her hand from mine, and strokes my hair. “Just like your ma.”

“Just like you,” I lie.

She’s only ever gathered information to throw at Dad during their brawls, fights that would rock the house for hours before their fucking did. The brownstone was always loud growing up—five kids running around, two adults who were always fucking and fighting, screaming out their fury and frustration, their lust and hatred for one another. They were awhirlwind of passion, and I knew from a young age that it was a weakness.

I was never like her. Duke is like her. Crystal is like her. Royal too, more than he’d like to admit, more than I realized. King and I, we’re not ruled by our passions and instincts. We’re rational.

When Ma lets out a sigh and sinks into sleep, I tuck her hand under the blanket and return to the bathroom to tidy up. The maid could do it in the morning, but Ma would be embarrassed for them to know she drank herself sick. I wash my hands, staring down into the bottle of blue pills. I hold it up, tilting it over the tile until they almost spill. I can see them in my mind, the slow tumble of them through the air; can hear the ticking sound as they clatter across the marble. I cap the bottle tightly and return it to the drawer, but the memory lingers.

I was little, probably only three or four, when I found the bottle on the counter in my parents’ bathroom. I didn’t know what they were, though I’d seen Ma swallow them. Their color drew me, though it wasn’t pretty like the pearls I make now. They were dull and oblong, a deeper blue. I watched them scatter over the tiles. I gathered them into a pile with my chubby hands, then crawled to get one I spotted over near the trash can. I knocked it over, the metal clanging against the surface. I looked up, waiting for the nanny to come, but no one did.

That’s when I saw the stick that had spilled out with the other trash, just a white strip of plastic, but it had a curved shape like it was made for fisting, and two pink lines that I liked. I picked it up and corralled the pills with it. I was still playing with them when Ma came in.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked, tearing the stick from my tiny hand. “That’s dirty!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s—it’s—” She broke off with a sob, scooping me into her arms. She sat on the toilet lid and held me, crying into my hair.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, holding around her neck.

“It’s a pregnancy test,” she sniffled. “It means I’m having another baby.”

I wasn’t excited or scared or happy. I wasn’t anything. There were a lot of kids in our family. One more didn’t seem like much of a change. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t like that.

“Is that why you’re sad?” I asked. I knew tears meant sadness. I understood that.

“I can’t have another baby,” she wailed. “I can’t! I’ll kill myself before I have another one of you.”

I didn’t know what I’d done wrong then, but I knew there was something wrong with me. I hadn’t before that. I just was. I was me, the way I was. Too young to know I might be different. Maybe I wasn’t, before that. Or maybe it happened later, at Uncle Vinny’s.

“Do not tell your father,” Ma said, grabbing my chubby face between her hands, suddenly fierce. “Don’t tell anyone. Promise me!”

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