Page 58 of Fierce Love
“Ah, right,” my father says with a tsk. “She’s got the cops in her back pocket now that she’s hanging out with a Tucker. Just like last time.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
My mother has been scouring the room, and now she’s getting closer than I’m comfortable with. They’re like circling lions, ready to pounce.
“TV shows, VIP concert tickets—those things don’t come cheap. What kind of vagina hooks have you got that you managed to reel him back in a second time?”
“That’s not…” The denial dies on my lips. “How do you…” Then I remember a few times I came home and things in the apartment felt different, like stuff had been moved, but I could never place what. Her words from when she entered register. “You’ve been here, trespassing.”
“That’s a big word,” my father says. “One I’m not sure you understand the meaning of. We’ve paid money toward this apartment. We’ve got a legal claim here.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I say.
“Kinsley seemed overjoyed about the concert,” my mother says, sly as she weaves her way closer.
“How would you know that?” I ask.
“We follow each other,” she says with a little shrug. “Besties.”
Kinsley can’t know it’s Mickie on the other side of whatever profile our mother is using. I refuse to believe Kin would have gone behind my back to befriend Mickie. Curiosity, I can understand, but Mickie is implying an actual relationship.
“It makes her really angry that you work so much, you know. I always tell her she’s right to be angry. Justified. After all, her sister stole her from her rightful parents—the ones who should be raising her. The ones who would have raised her here, given her everything.”
The courts took my sister. I just swooped in and removed her from government care. But I know that tone in my mother’s voice. She’s a viper, waiting to strike, and I’m not handing her any provocation. I can deal with whatever has been happening between her and Kinsley with my sister—who is, funnily enough, the rational one in this situation.
“I want my shit,” my mother says, “and I’m not leaving until you hand it over.”
“I don’t have anything,” I say, flinging out my hands. “Whatever you’re after isn’t here.”
“Nah, it’s here somewhere. Verna would have wanted me to have it all back. So either you’re looking for it right now, or I am,” she says.
“Neither of us are. I have to get to set.” And when I see the time on the clock, a little bit of panic sets in. If I don’t take some brave steps here, I’m going to be very late on my first day of shooting, and Nate already explained to everyone that being late is money and time lost. “You need to leave.”
“Fuck that,” my father says. “You get your mother’s things, and then we’ll leave.”
“I’ll call the police,” I say, taking my phone out of my pocket.
My mother lunges and tries to grab my phone, but I cling on, instinct taking over.
“No!” I shout, trying to hold it away from her.
With the hand that’s not trying to grab my phone, Mickie swings at my face with a closed fist.
The blow lands, and I stumble back, letting go of my phone. Younger me might have cried or been shocked that she hit me so hard, even after all the episodes of violence before. No matter how many times it happened when I was a kid, it always felt like a new betrayal, a wound I’d never forget. My cheek throbs from the blow, which used to cause me to close in, fold in on myself, want to be small enough she wouldn’t strike again.
But I realize I don’t have to be the kid who backs down anymore. Being small never stopped her. Fear isn’t what’s surging through me; it’s indignation and rage. She’s got my phone in her hand, a smug smile on her lips, and I dig my hand intoherhair, and I twist, just the way she used to do to me. It’s the movement that always buckled my knees, caused my eyes to water, made me pliable.
“You’re going to get out of my fucking apartment,” I say, practically dragging her to the door, adrenaline surging through me.
“Let your mother go,” my father says, hands up. He’s always let her do the dirty work, perfectly content to watch with glee as she ruined me.
“Get the fuck out,” I rage, pointing at the door with my free hand.
He backs out, and I practically throw my mother out the door behind him. She spins and hurls my phone at me, aiming for my head, but I duck, and it skitters across the apartment floor.
“Don’t come back,” I say, slamming the door.
Fists pound on the other side, the same rage I just felt mirrored in her. I hate that I’ve inherited the ability to go there, to be that person, even if it’s in response to her.
