Chapter 29 Eliana
ELIANA
spoiled: /spoild/: adjective
There’s a stranger in my mom’s apartment.
He’s sprawled on the couch, beer in one hand, remote in the other. Mid-forties, maybe. Thinning hair slicked back with too much gel. Gold chain visible through his unbuttoned collar. He looks like the sort of dude who calls women “sweetheart” and thinks it’s charming.
“Oh!” Mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She’s wearing lipstick. Honest-to-goodness lipstick. When’s the last time I saw her in makeup? “Eliana, honey, I didn’t know you were coming by!”
“Well, here I am.” I eye the stranger warily. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“This is Rick,” she gushes, giddy as a schoolgirl. “Rick, this is my daughter I was telling you about, Eliana.”
Rick stands and extends a hand. His palm is clammy when I shake it. “Pleasure to meet you, Eliana. Your mom’s told me so much about you.”
“Has she?” I look at Mom. “I thought you and Derek just broke up.”
Rick’s brow furrows. “Who’s Derek?”
“The last guy,” I clarify.
Mom waves her hand. “That was weeks ago, honey. Ancient history.”
Actually, that was three days ago, I want to correct. Meaning that, three days ago, you were so upset that you got too drunk to stand and I had to do a three-legged race with you to get you into your bed.
But what would be the point? She won’t listen.
“Rick and I met at the grocery store,” Mom continues. She beams at him. “He helped me reach something on the top shelf and we just got to talking, and—well, one thing led to another.”
“One thing led to another,” I repeat flatly. “That was fast.”
“When you know, you know,” Rick says with a wink that makes my skin crawl. He settles back onto the couch and pats the cushion beside him. “Come on, G, the game’s about to start.”
Mom giggles—fucking giggles—and sits beside him. He drapes an arm around her shoulders.
I’m still standing one step inside the doorway, watching my mother cuddle up to a man whose name she probably didn’t know forty-eight hours ago. I feel so goddamn tired.
“I brought you some money,” I say. “For the rent.”
Mom’s face brightens. “Oh, honey, that’s so sweet of you. Rick, isn’t she sweet?”
“Sweet as pie,” Rick agrees without looking away from the TV.
I pull the envelope from my purse and set it on the kitchen counter. Twelve hundred dollars, pulled from an ATM on my way here. If I had to bet, I’d say Rick here will be drinking that money by the end of the night.
When the Bulls game reaches a commercial break, Rick looks at my mother. “G, baby, grab me another beer, will ya?”
She leaps to her feet, jewelry jangling. “Of course, baby. I’ll be right back.”
She scurries off, leaving me alone with the newest Derek, who is looking at me and grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
“Don’t be a stranger, darling! Come, sit. Let’s get to know each other.” He pats the couch again, still warm from where my mom was sitting, and gives me a wink. “I don’t bite, I promise.”
Blech. I resist the urge to throw up in my mouth.
But I pick my way over and take the seat Mom vacated. “So. Der— er, Rick. What do you do for work?”
Historically speaking, most of Mom’s boyfriends trip at this first hurdle. Work—the most evil of four-letter words for Derek and his ilk.
Rick’s grin falters momentarily as he scratches his neck. “Oh, I’m, uh, between opportunities at the moment. I was doing some construction work, remodeling and such, but the boss and I got into a bit—he doesn’t have a head for business, see, not like I do—so we decided to part ways.”
Just as I suspected.
“I see.”
“This place of your ma’s, though, it’s got real nice bones to it, doesn’t it?” He sweeps a hand around at the apartment. “A little elbow grease and it’d clean up super nice.”
“Is that so?” I ask emotionlessly.
“Oh, yeah. Big time. All it’d take is a little cash flow, a couple upgrades, and abracadabra, you’ve got yourself a real gem.”
One by one, my alarm bells are starting to ring. Mom is somehow taking an eternity to fetch Rick’s beer, though, so while I’ve got a few spare seconds, I let him keep running out enough rope to hang himself with.
“Just a little cash flow, huh?”
“Big time.” He nods, eyes huge. “Speaking of which, your mom was telling me you work at Hale Hospitality. I know those guys. Got a couple buddies up at that big construction site of yours on Randolph.”
“Oh, yeah. Big project.”
“Huuuge,” he agrees, rubbing thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for money. “I hear the boss is a bastard, but seems like he pays well, yeah? Your mom was telling me you make good money.”
“Mom was telling you a lot, wasn’t she?” I mutter dryly.
He cackles and slaps his knee like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I don’t particularly like his laugh, but what I really don’t like is how he touches my knee right after. His palm lingers there just long enough to be creepy, but not long enough to justify me saying something.
I pull my knee away and cross my arms. “So, Rick. How long have you and my mom actually known each other?”
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Time’s funny when you meet the right person. Could be a week, could be a month. Feels like forever, you know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
He laughs again, that same knee-slapping guffaw. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you? I like that in a woman.”
My stomach considers expelling my lunch. I’m about to excuse myself before that can happen when Mom finally reappears, beer in hand.
“Here you go, baby.” She hands it to Rick, then turns to me. “Eliana, honey, can you come help me in the kitchen for a sec? I want to show you something.”
I leap off the couch. “Sure. Yeah. Of course.”
As I follow her into the tiny kitchen, I catch Rick’s eyes tracking my movement. The way he watches me makes my skin crawl. I feel like I need a shower and maybe a restraining order.
Mom closes the kitchen door behind us—well, pulls it mostly shut, since the hinges are broken and it doesn’t actually close all the way anymore.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” she whispers.
“Mom, he’s…”
I open my mouth, then close it again. How do I even begin?
Mom, I think this guy might be using you for money.
Mom, Rick is just Derek by another name. They’re ALL just Dereks by another name. Why can’t you see that?
For God’s sake, you’ve known him for approximately five minutes and he’s already eyeing your daughter like she’s on the menu.
But who am I to talk? I’m still wearing Bastian’s pullover, for crying out loud. If that isn’t “hot mess express” in size XL, what is?
After all, the same man who gave me this sweatshirt is literally bribing me to work for him. Well, sort of bribing, sort of extorting, but same difference. Point is, Rick’s basically doing the exact same thing to Mom, just with less money and more beer.
Maybe I’m not qualified to give relationship advice. From an objective perspective, I’m just as much of a disaster as she is.
“He seems… nice,” I finally manage.
Mom looks overjoyed. “I knew you’d like him!”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You will, though,” she assures me. “He’s such a charmer, Elly. Once you get to know him, you can’t help but fall in love.”
Right on cue, I hear a belch from the living room. He’s got A+ comedic timing, I’ll give him that.
“Sure, Mom, yeah. It’s just… Don’t you think this is all a little soon? Like, maybe it’s happening a little fast?”
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. As soon as the words leave my lips, it’s like someone cranked down the dimmer switch on Mom’s joy. Those old, angry lines etched in around her mouth appear again in sharp relief.
“Fast?” she echoes.
“I’m just saying, isn’t it—”
“You know what your problem is, Eliana?” She’s not whispering anymore. “You think you’re better than me. You’ve always thought that.”
“Mom, hold on, I don’t think—”
“Ever since you were old enough to talk, you’ve thought you’re better than your mother.
And worst of all, you hate seeing me happy.
You’ve always, always hated it.” Her hands are shaking now, the dishtowel in her hands trembling like a red flag in the wind.
“But at least I’m not alone. I have someone. ”
I take a step back, and then another, until my shoulders bump the counter and there’s nowhere else to go.
She advances on me. “Guess what? I am happy, Eliana. For the first time in months, I’m actually happy. And you can’t even be supportive for five minutes.”
From the living room, Rick calls out, “Everything okay in there, G?”
“Everything’s fine!” she calls back, her voice suddenly syrupy sweet. Then, quieter, to me: “Maybe you should just go.”
There are so many things I want to say, but I don’t have the heart to really give voice to them. Contrary to what she seems to think, I do want my mom to be happy.
I’ve seen her happy before. I have so many good memories of that.
We got caught in the rain one time on our way into the grocery store.
I must’ve been six or seven. But instead of panicking or dragging us under the nearest awning to wait out the storm, she laughed and made me dance with her in the puddles while she sang showtunes at the top of her lungs.
And when the rain stopped, a rainbow appeared.
I’d never seen her smile so big or laugh so loud.
That’s happiness. This? Fetching beers for a skeezy creep with overly adventurous hands and repulsive beer burps? That can’t be happiness. Trying desperately to plug each new ill-fitting man into a Derek-shaped hole cannot be happiness.
But if that’s what she thinks she wants, I won’t be the one to take it from her. She’s had a hard enough life already.
“Alright. Yeah, I’ll go. I’m sorry, Mama. I love you.”
She sniffles and doesn’t say it back. Doesn’t look at me, either, as I turn and walk to the door.
Rick’s voice follows me out. “Hey, Eliana! Lemme know what you think about doing some reno work around here, yeah? I got some great ideas!”
I give him a weak nod and thumbs up. Then I pull the door closed behind me.
I’m halfway down the block, waddling in my many layers toward the bus station, when I see it again: the black sedan with the blacked-out windows, parked half a block down. Same one from outside Dr. Haggerty’s office, I’m almost certain.
But again, I tell myself I’m being stupid. It’s a city of three million people—there are probably hundreds of black sedans with tinted windows. I’m just paranoid. It’s been a nightmarish day and my brain is manufacturing threats that don’t exist.
I shake my head and keep walking. By the time the bus arrives, the sedan is gone. If it was ever really there to begin with.
I climb aboard, collapse into a seat near the back, and close my eyes, trying not to think about anything at all.
I keep up that same meditative-slash-vegetative state when I get home.
I make a measly dinner of cucumber and hummus with a side of grapes.
I eat in silence. Then I shower, brush my teeth, brush my hair, put on pajamas.
After a beat of hesitation, I shrug Bastian’s pullover on top of my sleep shirt.
I burrow under the covers and fall asleep almost instantly. No dreams come—just deep, heavy nothingness.
I welcome it gratefully.
The pounding yanks me back to consciousness.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Someone’s hammering on my door like they’re trying to break it down.
I pitch out of bed, brain still foggy, and shuffle toward the noise. The clock on the microwave reads 3:48 A.M.
Who the hell…?
I rise up on tip-toes and look through the peephole. I see a distorted fish-eye view of whichever wannabe SWAT guy is putting his fist through my door.
When I realize who it is, I unlock the deadbolt and yank the door open. “What the fuck?”
Bastian’s eyes drop to the pullover I’m wearing—his pullover—then snap back to my face. “We need to talk.”