42. Alice
42
Alice
W ill is Billy.
My Will.
I stare at the ceiling in my apartment. My body doesn’t feel right. But I can’t quite explain it. So how will I ever explain it to Will?
He lied to me and there’s a part of me that tells me I should be angry. And I’m not not angry. But more than anger–I am sad. I am lost.
See? Confusing.
Will’s a good person. I know he is. So, if he’s lying–to everyone, he has his reasons. But how can he feel whole or right or good? Every day he wears this mask. Every day he hides part of himself.
More than anger, the thought breaks me a little. My heart squeezes until it hurts, and I cling to my chest with clutched hands. I reach for Gerald and hold him close as if he will take some of Will’s pain away–because I’m certain these lies come from a place of pain.
My phone rings and the sound jostles me out of my thoughts and stupor.
“Will?” I say aloud. I scramble for my cell and I’m sliding the call open when I realize it isn’t him.
It’s from my mom, Sandra.
I cram my eyes shut. I would have avoided this phone call… I’m not up for it. But it’s too late now.
“Hello?” I say, my voice is small and sad, like a child’s. I am certain a perfect stranger would hear me at this moment and know that my world is wrong. That I need help, love, and guidance.
“You need to send me one grand. Now.” Her voice is quick and stressed.
I lift up on my elbow and hold my phone to my ear. “Mom?”
“Yes,” she says, more annoyed than stressed, I realize. “I need one thousand dollars, Alice. Right now.”
I sit on my bottom and tighten one arm around Gerald. “Why?”
Mom groans. “Can we skip the twenty questions? You always have to have details.”
“I just–” I say, my voice still in that child-like place. Doesn’t she hear it? Doesn’t she care?
“Fine,” she interrupts. “Boone might have stolen one little couch. The bail is a thousand dollars.”
“A couch? How did he–” I shake my head. “Your place is furnished. Why would he do that?”
“Alice, listen. This is serious. I need a thousand dollars, and I need it now. Boone will have to stay in jail until his court date otherwise.”
I close my eyes, listening to her words, listening to the lack of love there. “You always need money.” It may be the most unforgiving thing I’ve ever said to her.
She scoffs. “Yeah, well not all of us work for Mr. Money Bags.”
My pulse quickens. She’ll never stop asking for my money, for Will’s money, for help that isn’t deserved or warranted or even asked for kindly. “I’m sorry that Boone’s in trouble. But he’ll have to wait until the court date. I can’t send you any money.”
“Alice,” she gripes. “Maybe you don’t understand–”
“I understand. Boone did something unlawful. Something stupid. And there are consequences. Mom, when you left home, you told me I couldn’t depend on you forever. That I had to grow up. I love you. So, let me offer you the same advice.”
“Excuse me?” Her words are angry.
Anger is okay. It’s part of life. But the part of me that says I should be angry with Will comes from a place of thinking of myself. A Sandra place. Will’s been dealing with this secret a lot longer than me. With loss and pain and uncertainty. And all alone.
I swallow and find my voice. “We all make mistakes, Mom. Stealing a couch is apparently one of Boone’s. He’ll be okay. So will you.”
“What are you saying, Alice?” she says, a bite to each of her words.
“I’m saying that unless I feel like it’s the right thing to do, I won’t be paying for your mistakes anymore. Dad did that for far too long and I’m ending the cycle.”
“Jude paid me what he owed me–”
“No, he didn’t,” I say, my tongue sharper than I intended. “He was kind. Maybe even too kind. And he gave you more than you deserved.” I swallow, my heart pumping. “I love you, Mom. You can call. We can chat. You can even ask for things–but I’m just giving you the heads up. The answer will most likely be no.”
“You’re my daughter,” she spits. “Have you forgotten?”
“No. But I think you forgot a long time ago that you’re supposed to be my mom. You won’t take advantage of me or anyone I love–anymore.”