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I make him let me out three blocks from the house, so he pulls over to the side of the road and kisses me hard before letting me go, out into the night. He purrs along behind for a block before I finally turn back to him, kiss him through the window, and tell him to go. He goes, and I pick up my pace toward Leslie’s. My stomach sinks when I see the house with the lights from the living room glowing. Shit. I walk up to the front door, and it springs open before I can touch it. She is large, dressed in her nightgown and a pink robe and slippers.
“Where have you been?” It’s not anger that bursts from her, but something not far off. “I had a date,” I say, not used to being asked about my whereabouts and a little irritated that she is acting like I’ve done something wrong.
“It’s two thirty in the morning,” she says, drawing in her breath, trying to bring her voice back out of the stratosphere.
“So?” I respond, letting my irritation show, to match hers.
“That’s a little late for a date, Alison.”
“We fell asleep.” I then realize that was probably the worst thing I could have said. “We went to dinner and then out to the spillway. Nothing happened; we just fell asleep.” But I sound guilty, and I think there may be a bite mark on my neck that suggests maybe “nothing” is going a bit far.
“Alison.” I can see her anger ebbing and the easygoing Leslie coming back. “I guess we didn’t talk about curfew, did we?”
“I have a curfew?” I ask, incredulous. “You’re not my mother.” I am sure she can’t be more surprised than me that I’ve said this. It’s the last thing I would have ever expected out of my mouth.
“I know I’m not your mother, Alison, but if your mother were here, she would want to know where you are, wouldn’t she?”
“No. Not really,” I say, and this is very true. “I can take care of myself.” I sound petulant, childish.
“This house has a curfew. As long as you live here, and you are welcome here as long as you like, the curfew is eleven. If you aren’t going to make it in by eleven, you need to let me know where you are and when I can expect you.” She isn’t being unreasonable. I know she isn’t, but there is still a spark in me that goes against this being told what to do, a seam of rebellion. I think about going and getting my stuff from the rosy room, I think about storming out into the night, about trying to find another place to be. Then I think of Jay and Tommy, and the past few weeks snap back into focus. “Can you do that?” she asks. She has been patient, no doubt watching the march of thoughts across my face, and now her face is quiet and calm.
There is no doubt that since about the age of seven, this is the best my life has ever been. I’m not quite sure that I’m willing to throw it all away, even for whatever shred of pride still lurks inside of me. It is her question, her simply giving me the chance to still be powerful, to make a choice, that quells the rebellion. She is giving me a choice. The realization is enough. I nod and go to make my way past her. “Good. So do you think you’ll have another date with this fellow?”
“I think so.” A small smile spreads my lips, at Warren being called a “fellow” and at the sheer thought of another date.
“Tell me about him,” she says, settling on the couch, motioning to the seat next to her. I go and sit, because there could be no sleep right now—I’m so keyed up from my night with Warren. I think she is offering me something bigger than a room; I think she is offering me something bigger than a conversation. I settle beside her, turning slightly, drawing my leg up on the couch, looking at her, with the kindness of her soul glowing out of her large eyes. I tell her, in slow catches and starts, just the way my mother spoke when she talked about the few parts of her life she had ever shared. It’s a filtering, a manipulation of details, arranged very carefully for the listener.
I tell her about that last horrible Christmas when Mom had all her druggy friends over and I was so mad, and how Warren put the lights on the tree and we all sang Silent Night, out there in the snow. It’s my favorite Christmas memory, and it’s from my worst-ever Christmas. I tell her that he’s a half-brother to Cal, my mom’s boyfriend. “He’s missing. He’s been gone since a couple of days before my mom, you know.” She nods, and I go on. “Warren is nothing like Cal. He hates him.” He’s scared of him, the truth sings out in my head, so clear. Of course he is scared of him. Cal is a dangerous man. It doesn’t make Warren weak that he knows fear, it makes him smart because he knows what should be feared.
She asks questions. For starters, “Does he have a job?” I tell her about his vending machine route, and I tell her that he’s a musician. I tell her the name of his band and thrilled when she says, “I’ve heard of them.” It is after four when we finally make our way down the hall to our bedrooms. She gives me a hug, and I tell her that I’m sorry I made her worry. We fought, but nothing is broken. She was angry at me, and I was angry at her, but after sitting with her on the couch, talking about Warren, telling her all the things he makes me feel—well, some of the things he makes me feel—I realize absolutely nothing is broken. We are good. She cares about me; I care about her. This is Mother. Leslie is what mothers are meant to be.
I fall into bed and lay thinking, trying to close my eyes, trying to shut off the talking part of my brain, but it continues mumbling and babbling. The smell of him is still in my hair and on my skin, and I realize I screwed up. At some point, out there at the spillway, every single one of my doors blew open and every wall I thought I had was taken down. He fills me up entirely, and the intensity of it terrifies me, but the pleasure at feeling him there, all wrapped around my internal organs, makes me not care. Let it come, I think. Let him break my heart, because I know he will, and if this is the only glimpse of love I will ever know, then it is enough. Sometime later, as the first glint of sun splashes across Charleston Lake, I finally drift off to sleep.