“Mallory,” Mom interrupts sternly. “That’s enough.”
“Is it, though?” I look at her. My eyes are blurry, burning with the same heat that’s in my stomach. “Not that you’re much better, since you’re currently also being a bitch— ”
“Enough.”
Mom’s harsh voice is followed by a thick, terrible silence.
It’s my undoing: suddenly, I’m in my body again. And with that, I can hear every vile thing I just said like a played-back tape, and it’s unbearable. I’m too horrified, too angry, too stricken to stay one second longer.
“Oh my God. I-I . . .”
I shake my head and turn around. Stagger to my room, vision fuzzy.
I just called my mom, my thirteen-and fifteen-year- old sisters whose lives I ruined— I called them bitches. I threw in their face what I’ve done for them— despite the fact that it wouldn’t have needed doing if it hadn’t been for me.
I close the door behind me, fold onto my mattress, and hide my face in my hands, ashamed.
I never cry. I didn’t cry when I told Mom about what Dad did. I didn’t cry when he packed his bags and left. I didn’t cry when we received that phone call from the highway patrol at five thirty in the morning. I didn’t cry when I declined my scholarship offers, when Bob fired me, in Defne’s car on my way back from Nolan’s house. I never cried, even when I wanted to, because when I asked myself if I had the right to those tears, the answer was always no, and it was easy to stop myself.
But I’m sobbing now. I hide my face in my hands and wail loudly, messily, fat drops sliding down my face, pooling in my palms. At once, the last few years all feel so real. All my failures, my mistakes, my bad choices. All the losses, the minutes, and the hours spent going in the opposite direction of life, the fact that Dad is not here anymore . . . It’s all stuck in my throat, dirty rags and broken glass, suffocating, gut wrenching, and all of a sudden I don’t know how I’m going to bear the hurt of what being me has become for even half a second longer.
And then the mattress dips, right next to me.
A warm, thin hand settles on my shoulder. “Mallory,” Mom says. Her voice is patient but firm. “I’ve tried to give you as much space as you needed. But I think it’s time for us to talk about the World Championship.”
I can think of several things to say to Mom.
Sadly, they’re all swallowed by my hiccups.
Fortunately, Mom seems to be able to read my mind.
“Yes,” she says calmly, pushing my wet hair back from my eyes. “I know.”
“H-how?”
She smiles. “Darcy told me the moment she found out. But I knew something was up long before then.” She shrugs. “Your hours didn’t make any sense, your stories sounded like what someone who’s never been in a senior center would make up from reading pamphlets. And . . . there is something about you when chess is on your mind. You feel like another person. A much happier person.” Her smile turns rueful. “Mal. They talked about you on Good Morning America. Did you think I wouldn’t have gotten phone calls from every distant cousin of mine about how you should really perm your hair?”
I groan. Between hiccups. Mom lets out a soft laugh and pulls me closer with an arm around my shoulders, like she doesn’t hate me for calling 67 percent of the people she gave birth to bitches.
“I think I’m doing this wrong,” she says gently. “Maybe before we talk about the World Championship, we should talk about your dad.”
I instantly shake my head. “No, I— I’m sorry. I was way out of line. We don’t have to— ”
“But we do.” Her lips press together, and her expression morphs into something sad. “It’s been over a year, and I take responsibility for not doing it earlier. For a long time, I lied to myself that I was doing you a favor. That you were deeply hurt, and didn’t need to be re-traumatized.”
“I’m not.” I wipe my eyes and let out a phlegmy laugh. “I am not the one who’s traumatized. You are the one who got cheated on. Sabrina and Darcy are the ones who grew up without a father. I am the one who made it happen— I am the bitch here.”
“No, no, no.” Mom shakes her head, looking crestfallen. “See? That’s why we should have discussed this. You are not responsible for any of that. You know who is?” A beat. Her eyes shine in the late afternoon light. “Your father. Your father made some terrible, cruel, careless choices. And part of why I don’t talk to you girls about him as much as I should is that it’s very difficult, even years later, for me to come to terms with the person he’d become toward the end. But I will never hold you responsible for any of it.”
“You should. It was my fault. If I hadn’t— ”
“Mal, our histories are not made of ifs and buts. Although, if this is the game you want to play: if you hadn’t told me about what you’d seen at that tournament, I would have found out anyway. Because it wasn’t the first time he’d done that. And your father had a long history of dealing with problems with alcohol, and he’d had two DUIs before his accident, so even if he had still been living at home, there’s a good chance that what happened would have happened anyway.”
I take a shuddering breath, thinking about Dad. How much I miss him. How he could have done that to us. “Sabrina blames me for it. And she’s right— ”
“No, I don’t.”
I glance at the door. Sabrina is leaning against the doorframe, glaring at me.
“I know you do.” I’m sobbing again. “And you have every right. I stole Dad from you, and— ”
“I don’t, you bitch. And I never did.” She looks down at her feet. “However, I am familiar with your Red Cross nurse tendencies and with your habit of shouldering the universe, Atlasstyle.” She swallows. “So I may have used the knowledge that you blame yourself for every damn thing to ever happen to my advantage. When you piss me off.”
Mom sighs. “Sabrina.”
“I apologize, okay?” she says defensively. “I didn’t think you felt this bad about it— it’s not like you show emotions, ever. But it also is your fault, a little bit. It used to be fun, hanging out with you. We’d do stuff without Mom and Dad and Darcy, and I’d feel like you and I were a thing. You treated me like a person. Now it’s like you’re ready to narc me out on anything I do. You give me orders and act all superior and like you’re trying to be Mom. You treat me more like a child now than you did when I was a child— ” Her voice breaks, and she quickly bends her neck to hide her tears. “Maybe I’m a bitch, but I’m not ungrateful. I’m very grateful, actually. I know how much you do, and if you didn’t try to be so secretive about it, maybe I could actually show it. But if you want, I can send you a thank-you card, or— ”
She stops between sniffles, and I want to stand, I want to go hug her, I want to tell her that it’s okay and I don’t want her stupid card, I just want my sister to stop crying. But Mom’s hand closes around mine.
“When you stopped playing chess, Mal, I assumed that you did it because your father’s actions made it too painful for you. I assumed you’d find your way back to it once you were healed. And when you decided not to go to college . . . well, you seemed genuinely hurt and offended whenever I tried to talk you out of it, so I told myself that you were an adult, and were making choices that were best for you and your well-being, and I had to respect that.