“Look,” the police officer says, “this woman says she’s Leona Fitch, but she doesn’t have any ID. She claims you’re her daughter and you can verify that she lives here at fourteen and a half Center Street.”
People gather below the streetlight.
“What are you staring at?” I yell. It feels good to get angry. Freeing. Like something knotted tight inside me has loosened.
I check my watch—it’s close to ten—and turn to my mother. “I need to go someplace. Where’s the car?”
She doesn’t answer.
I glare at her—at the dry cracks in her lips, the uneven pencil lines drawn above her eyelids, the mascara chunks perched on her lashes. “I asked you something. Where’s the goddamn car?”
“Mad’line”—she pouts—“that’s notta nice way to talk to yer mother.”
“Too bad. I’m through with nice. Nice is for people who don’t mind getting walked on. Nice is for losers who take seventeen friggin’ years to see what’s right in front of them. You don’t care about me. Why should I care about you?”
The policeman folds his arms. “Miss, please. We haven’t got all night. Are you this woman’s daughter? Are you Madeline Fitch?”
The people under the streetlamp crowd closer.
My rage eats a hole through my stomach. I turn to my mother and holler, “You can screw up your own life all you want, but you’re done screwing with mine. Do you understand?” I grab her arm. Roughly. “Now, listen to me. I have to go somewhere. To check on someone. Someone who matters to me. So tell me, where’s the fucking car?”
“Look,” the cop says, “you’re not gonna be driving anywhere in the car this woman was operating. There’s been an accident. Your mother—if we can determine that’s who she is—was at fault. She ran a red light and hit a pickup truck broadside. Totaled both vehicles. Now we need your cooperation.”
Horrified, I shrink back. “Was anyone…hurt?”
He clears his throat, lowers his voice. “A young man—the other driver—was rushed to the hospital.”
“Will he be okay?” I ask.
“I can’t release any information about his condition at this time.”
More people gather to gawk at us. There must be twenty of them now.
“Go home and watch The Love Boat!” I shout, waving my hands in the air.
They step back, afraid. I feel powerful.
But then the cop reaches out, as if he might restrain me. He probably thinks I’m a nutcase like my mother. So I act normal. I tell him what he needs to know. “Her name is Leona Fitch,” I say calmly. “She’s not supposed to drive because of her DWIs. That’s why she didn’t have a license with her. It was revoked.”
I glare at my mother, penetrating her cloudy gaze. I hate those eyes. I hate all they don’t see. All they’ve never seen. Like me. The person she gave birth to. Her daughter.
The cop tugs my mother’s arm, directing her back down the steps toward the cruiser. He holds the door open and motions her in. After closing it, he turns to me. “Miss, your mother will be spending the night in jail. Will you be all right here alone?”
I want to tell him, I’ve been alone my whole life. But I don’t. I’ve behaved badly enough. “I’m fine. My boyfriend’s on his way here to pick me up.”
“Well, give him some extra time,” the officer says. “Traffic’s tied up for miles on account of the accident.”
I swallow hard. “It’s that bad?”
He nods. “’Fraid so.”
My mother watches me through the window. She’s crying, and her mascara’s running. I’m sorry, she mouths, over and over.
Except I don’t care that she’s sorry. And I don’t care that she’s crying. I hope they keep her in jail so long she rots. Dissolves to dust. Disappears. Because my mother doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is telling Tad I’m pregnant so he can ask me to marry him. He’ll be a wonderful daddy and I’ll learn to be a mom. That part scares the hell out of me, but with Tad’s help I’ll figure it out.
As I walk toward the apartment, a song pops into my head—“Desiree,” by Neil Diamond. It played on the radio the night Tad and I made love at his trailer while his dad was working—the one time he didn’t use a rubber. The time I must’ve gotten pregnant. I decide that’s what I’ll name my baby if it’s a girl. I place my hands on my stomach. “Desiree,” I whisper, “your daddy will love you, just like he loves me. He’ll make sure we’re happy.”
An owl hoots in a nearby tree. I’ve never heard a real owl before, only a TV owl. I tell myself it’s a sign.
Inside, I lock the door to our apartment, glancing outside the window one more time. The sidewalks are empty now. The night is glued together again. Solid and dark. Life will finally work out. Because Tad loves me and he wants a family. I plan to give him everything he wants. Everything will be fine.
Just as soon as he arrives.