Page 115 of There is No Devil

The glasses are wet, with no paper towel to dry them. I shake them off, then search for the bottle opener. Unsurprisingly, it’s out in the open on the kitchen counter, next to my mother’s keys, an open tube of lipstick, and a handful of loose change. Next to that, a dozen prescription bottles, some with her name on them, and some bought or stolen. Most of the bottles are already empty.

I bring the glasses out filled to the brim, and pass one to my mother.

She takes it, saying, “Where’s the bottle?”

I retrieve it from the kitchen, setting it on the coffee table between us, atop a stack of oldVogues. I’m not the first person to do this—Anne Hathaway’s face is already distorted by several wet rings.

Girl With One Eye – Florence + The Machine

Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple

My mother takes three swallows of the wine, gulping it like cool water after a long race. Sighing in satisfaction, she leans back against the threadbare cushions of the sofa. Now she’s smiling, smoke drifting up from her cigarette, hanging over her head like her own personal storm cloud.

“Come back to brag?” she says.

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?” she snaps. “What do you want?”

She can’t imagine anyone visiting her on purpose, for the pleasure of her company.

In this case, she’s right.

“I saw you gave another interview about me,” I say.

She lets out a snort of air, the closest thing to a laugh.

“Don’t like me spilling all your secrets?” she sneers.

My mother still has the mannerisms of a beautiful woman—she arches her eyebrow in the same haughty way, holding her cigarette with theatrical flair. Men used to fall at her feet. She had this dark confidence that sucked them in until they realized that everything about her is an act. She’s allergic to the truth, she won’t tell it even when it would benefit her to do so.

Which is why it will be difficult to get what I want from her.

“I don’t care what you say to reporters,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing you do can tear me down now.”

“ ‘Cause you’re fucking some artist?” she scoffs. “I know how that works. You’re nothing without him. When he’s tired of you, he’ll toss you aside and you’ll be right back where you started.”

She takes another gulp of wine, the glass more than half gone.

She really believes what she’s saying. The world is so ugly to her. People’s motivations so cruel.

I could almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

“You’re telling your story, not mine,” I say.

She sets her glass down hard, a little wine sloshing over the rim.

“You think you’re better than me because you stroll in here in your fancy new clothes, ‘cause you got your name in the paper? I know who you really are. I fucking birthed you. You’re weak, you’re stupid, you’re lazy, and you’re nothing but a filthy little whore. You can paint a billion paintings and not one of them will change what you are inside.”

Triumphantly, she picks the glass up again, downing whatever remains inside.

I watch her swallow it all, my own wine sitting untouched next to me.

“Good,” I say, softly. “Now that you’ve finished, we can address what I actually came here to discuss.”

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