How to Make a Wish

by Ashley Herring Blake

  She pops her hands on her hips, her mascara smeared into black half-moons under her eyes. “What has gotten into you?”

  Wishes, I think. I hold one hand out in front of me, the other still gripping at my towel. My nails are bare, but I can still see it. A few flecks of leftover purple.

  “God, I can’t wait for you to grow up,” Mom says, heading toward the sink behind me. She’s shaking it off, ready to wash up and hit the sack, no doubt. No big deal. Just another day in the life of Maggie and Grace.

  My hands start to shake as I hear the faucet turn on, water rushing, Mom’s sigh loud enough to drown it all out. A million lights are coming to life inside me, their force and glow and color almost too much.

  Or just enough.

  Maybe you really can’t love me the way I want you to.

  Eva’s words come back, latching on to every single little light, turning them inside out and outside in.

  But I can, I say back to her now, wishing I were still standing with her in that crappy motel parking lot in the rain. I’d do everything differently. I can love Eva the way she deserves, the way I deserve. I can have what I need. Maybe even what I want.

  “Mom,” I say softly.

  The word stops her. She stiffens, bent over the sink, her hands full of water. She lets it splash back into the bowl and flips the faucet off. Then she turns around to face me, a stony expression just underneath that fuzzy gaze caused by whatever she drank tonight.

  “Grace, it was just—​”

  “Don’t you dare.” Unbidden, tears well up, and this time I let them come. They feel right; they feel good. It seems so easy now, just to cry about it. Just to feel pissed off and cheated, to love my mother this damn much, but love myself a little more because I need to. I have to.

  “Don’t you dare,” I say again through a clogged throat. “It’s not just sex or just some guy. It never has been. It’s not just a town. It’s not just music. It’s not just a birthday. It’s not just a little vodka or just some bar or just some new drafty duplex’s address. It’s not just my life. And you know it.”

  She flinches like I smacked her. Maybe I did. Everything burns—​my chest, my eyes, the palms of my hands. My fingertips tingle with certain wishes dying out, others coming to life.

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Gracie. I’m your mother.”

  “Then act like it! Fucking act like it, for once in your life.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Really? Are you serious? Look at what just happened! You brought a guy back to our hotel room to screw with your teenage daughter twenty feet away, naked in a bathtub.”

  She frowns but has the decency to blush. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Where else would I be? You left me alone with two dollars in a city I don’t know.”

  “Grace—​”

  “Please just tell me you realize how fucked up this is.”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Mom.” I take step toward her, my voice so soft it pulls up more tears. Her eyes are on mine, genuine confusion underneath genuine embarrassment. I’m not sure which one is stronger. “Two days ago, you drove drunk with Eva in the car.”

  “Eva is fine—​”

  “And then you ran her into a tree. You hurt her, after everything she’s already dealing with. She’s not fine. And then you pulled me away from everyone who ever mattered to me. And then tonight with Tom or whoever the hell that was. And then, and then, and then. Where does it stop? How many bottles in the suitcase next time? How long until some boyfriend you bring home looks at me and—​”

  “I would never put you in that position,” Mom says, her hands pressed to her heart.

  “You have, Mom. You do.”

  She folds her arms and shakes her head.

  “Mom. This is not okay. I am not fine. You are not okay.”

  “Why do you keep doing that?” she asks, her voice small and low.

  “What . . . calling you Mom?”

  She nods.

  “Because that’s who I need you to be.”

  She heaves a choked sob and closes the distance between us, taking my hands in hers and gripping them tight. The fingers half covered by her brace are cold. “I am fine, baby. We’re going to be fine. We always are.”

  “No,” I say, so calmly it almost scares me. But it enlivens me too, fear of becoming this woman in front of me—​of irreparably losing this woman in front of me—​trumping the fear of ending this whole charade. “Look at our lives. You’re not okay. I am not okay. I love you so much, and I want to help you—​I do, but I can’t anymore. And I’m done making excuses for you. For what happened tonight. For the countless nights before this one.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut like a little kid refusing to hear reason. “You are fine. Eva. Is. Fine.”

  “No, she’s not! And that’s not the point! Do you even hear yourself? Do you hear what you’re saying about me? About the girl I might love?”

  She startles and my words sizzle between us for a few seconds. “The girl you might . . . I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  I can’t help but snort a laugh at her total cluelessness, but in that tiny moment, I know the truth. And it warms my blood in every good and shocking way. I’m not going to be a girl who doesn’t ask her boyfriend of six months where the hell his mother is. Not anymore. I’m not going to wake up one day and realize I don’t know my own daughter because I never asked, never listened. I’m not going to push people away because deep down I’m incapable of caring about them. And I’m not going to push them away because I do care about them. I’m going to love—​love boldly and carefully.

  Starting with myself.

  “Not ‘might,’” I say, taking a deep breath. “I do love her.”

  She blinks like a hundred times. “Like, love love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Well.” She keeps on blinking. “So, does this mean you’re a lesb—​?”

  “Oh my god, really?” I stare at her. Sure, years ago I told her that I liked girls and, yeah, she blew it off. But I guess somewhere deep inside I’d hoped she still knew. She could tell, because I’m her daughter and she’s my mother and I belong to her, no matter what.

  But when it comes to Maggie, hope is a sad, silly thing.

  “No, I am not a lesbian,” I say. “And if you’d ever paid one bit of attention to anything, you’d know that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m bisexual. Okay? Do I need to spell it out for you or are you going to wave your manicured hand and say, Well, sure, who isn’t?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  My lower lip jumps all over the place and my throat aches. Never has anything my mother has said been more on point than those three little words. They hit like a punch in the gut, real and raw and oxygen-sucking.

  “I know that,” I say softly. “You never have and I’m done.”

  She drops my hands and backs up. “You’re done?”

  I bridge the distance between us again, but I don’t touch her. “I can’t live this life with you anymore. It’s not who I am, and it shouldn’t be who you want me to be. You should want college for me. You should be shoving me out the door; you should—​”

  Her mouth falls open, horrified, and it stops me for split second, something habitual and protective unlacing inside me, but I tie it back up.

  “I’m not going to get a job after I graduate,” I say quietly. Resolutely. “You need to get a job and let me do what I need to do, what’s best for me, what I want. Mother”—​I gesture toward her and then tap my finger on my own chest—​“and daughter, like we should be. And you need to deal with things for once in your life. Pay Pete back—​”

  “I am not paying that asshole back.”

  I let her have that one because as usual she’s missing the point. So I step even closer and link our hands, our fingers, dark purple on stripped bare. I press my forehead
to hers.

  “I want you to get some help,” I say. “Real. Help.”

  She jerks back from me, and her eyes go hard. “You’re my daughter. You can’t tell me what I need. And what do you mean ‘real help’? Are you talking about one of those treatment centers where everyone sits around and talks about their feelings and pretends they can actually get better? That life won’t continue to shit all over them?”

  Her words slice through me.

  Pretend they can actually get better.

  She knows. She knows she’s sick. She knows she needs help. She’s probably known for years. She just won’t try.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice thick. “I’m talking about one of those places, but I do believe you can get better.”

  She jerks away from me. “I don’t need that kind of help. Couldn’t afford it anyway. I just need my daughter. That’s it.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry, Mom. You don’t need me. You want me with you, to clean you up, keep you out of trouble, whatever. There’s a difference. But that’s not what I need. And you can get a loan for the rehab. I’ll send you money now, get a job when I get to New York and send you money next year too. Anything.”

  “What the hell? New York?”

  I press my eyes closed, swallow down the hurt I still feel at her surprise over my future, over the future she seemed to really believe in once upon a time. The hurt I’ll probably always feel. “Either way, Mom. Whatever you decide to do, I’m going back to Cape Katie tonight.”

  “What? You belong with me. You’re really going to leave me? I can’t do this alone.” Tears spill down her cheeks now. She digs her fingers into her eyes. Her nails are immaculately purple, even after the car accident. Not one chip. She takes a few heaving breaths, and her voice is clogged and small when she speaks again. “I never planned to do this alone.”

  And I know she’s not just talking about me coming with her anymore. In this moment, I see her for who she is, who I maybe should’ve seen sooner but didn’t know how to deal with, didn’t know what it meant for me. My mother, a woman who planned a life with the man she loved. A woman who lost that man in a blink. A woman who was left alone and sad to raise a little girl who could never fill that void, no matter how hard she tried. And maybe it’s more than just grief and too many vodka bottles. Maybe she’s sick in a way that has nothing to do with situations or loss. I don’t know. Whatever it is, she’s still facing it alone, desperate for her kid to act more like a partner.

  “Do you remember what you used to say about wishes?” I ask her, stepping closer.

  She lifts her head to look at me.

  “How we wish on our fingertips?” I take her good arm and press my hand against her palm. Our fingers are the same length now. And after all these years, I realize she’s right. The stars won’t help me. No one will, not really. No one can.

  No one except me.

  “Of course I remember that, baby,” she whispers, increasing the pressure between our hands.

  “This is my wish, Mom. You need help. And I need to let you go.” And then I pull my hand back from hers slowly, widening the space between us.

  I spent my last dollars on junk food and acetone. I sit on a bench on Spring Street, staring at my phone, trying to get up the nerve to call Luca, Eva, Emmy. Even Macon. But I can’t seem to get my fingers to tap their names. Can’t seem to stop my eyes from leaking, my heart from pounding, my mind from screaming out in simultaneous relief and anger and hurt.

  After I asked Mom to get help—​after I made my wish, for better or worse—​Mom escaped to the shower, speechless, and I knew I had to leave right then. I didn’t know if I’d have the strength to stay if I’d waited for her to get out.

  And now, I know if I don’t call someone, I’ll go back to that hotel. I’ll try to fix it. Fix her, and I can’t. Only she can do that.

  I stare at my phone, flipping between the names of the only people in the world who love me.

  There are a few more missed calls from Luca and Eva. Even Emmy called once, but now it’s the middle of the night and everything’s quiet, allowing doubt upon doubt about what I’ve just done to pile up. It’s hard to wade through them. Where will I live? Luca and Emmy are the obvious choice, but do they even want me? Emmy’s got Eva now, a brand-new girl to take care of. Will I be too much? It’s all too overwhelming. I’m too tired, too sad, too desperate to see Eva, and too terrified she’ll turn me away.

  But I need to go home.

  So I tap on a different name and press the phone to my ear.

  An hour later Jay’s peeling-paint Jeep pulls up to the corner of Spring and Pleasant Streets. He doesn’t say anything as I round the front of his car, open the back door, and toss my suitcase onto the back seat before climbing in next to him. He just stares straight ahead, waiting until I’m buckled to start driving.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say as he pulls onto I-295.

  “Sure,” he says.

  Some band I’ve never heard croons out of his iPod, and he turns the volume up. That’s fine. I don’t want to talk either.

  He doesn’t say a word until we pull up outside of Luca’s house. It’s the middle of the night, I’ve just left my mother in a hotel room in Portland, and now I’m sitting in my ex-boyfriend’s car, staring at the darkened windows of Macon’s old room and wondering if my girlfriend is still my girlfriend.

  It’s almost enough to make me laugh.

  Almost.

  “You going to tell me what the hell happened?” Jay asks, his hands still wrapped around the steering wheel.

  “Is that your subtle way of asking?”

  “Is that your subtle way of saying no?”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and then I laugh. I laugh long and loud, tears springing into my eyes, and I’m not sure if they’re from actual laughter or exhaustion or sadness or what.

  “Did we fight like this when we were together?” I ask, wiping under my eyes.

  “Hell, yeah, we did. It was hot.”

  “Jesus, you’re such an ass,” I say, but I laugh through the words and Jay grins.

  “So,” he says. “You and Eva, huh?”

  My eyes widen. “Where did you hear that?”

  He shrugs. “I saw her in LuMac’s yesterday looking like someone killed her kitten. I asked Michaelson if she was okay. He asked if I knew where you were. And then I remembered how you used to stare at that Daisy Lowe poster in my room a little too intensely.”

  My stomach flip-flops. My heart flip-flops. Everything flip-flops. This is the first time someone I didn’t already trust implicitly—​or trust implicitly by proxy, like Kimber—​has found out about Eva and me. It’s terrifying. My fingers tighten on my bag, my whole body flushing cold and then hot. I brace myself for a jeer, a mean joke, a slur, even anger—​I did sleep with the guy—​but Jay just narrows his eyes at me. He’s even smiling a little.

  “I put two and two together,” he says quietly, gently.

  I feel myself relax, breath audibly whooshing out of my tight lungs. “Well, aren’t you the little mathematician.”

  He gives me a withering look, and I hold up my hands.

  “Sorry. Yes. Me and Eva.” I hope. I wish. My eyes drift toward her window again.

  “That’s cool,” he says, nodding. And I don’t know if it actually is cool to him—​he’s a teenage dude, and it doesn’t seem all that unlikely that he might get weird or maybe a little judgey or, hell, even excited when a girl who used to like him now likes a girl—​but for now, I’m happy to take him at his word.

  “What, no threesome jokes?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’ve already made plenty in my head, trust me.”

  I laugh. “I have no doubt.”

  “You still think I’m hot, right?”

  “Oh my god.”

  He laughs, but it fades quickly. “For real, though. You all right?”

  I bite my lip, rolling his question over and over again in my head. “I think I will be.�
��

  “Okay, then.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you ’round?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Thanks, Jay.”

  And then I get out of his car and he drives away. I’m left staring at a dark house—​my house, for all intents and purposes—​and it feels just like coming home.

  Emmy answers the door dressed in a tank top and a pair of blue-and-yellow-plaid pajama bottoms, her hair a sleep-tossed mess. She takes one look at my tear-ruined face and the suitcase in my hand before she releases a long sigh, like she’s been holding that breath for years. Maybe she has. Maybe we all have. Then she smiles a sad smile—​part relief, part heartbreak—​and pulls me into her arms.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  THERE’S NO SIGN OF EVA, BUT LUCA MUST HAVE HEARD my soft knock. He comes into the living room just a few seconds after Emmy lets me in, clad in green pajama bottoms and a LuMac’s T-shirt.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer before he yanks me into a hug and gives me a soft noogie.

  “I’m sorry,” I say into his shirt. Then I lift my head and meet Emmy’s gaze. “How’s Eva? Is she okay?”

  Emmy nods. “Physically, yes.”

  “I’m really so sorr—​”

  She holds up her hand. “Don’t. You and Eva might have some things you need to work out between you, but nothing about that car accident was your fault. Do you understand me?”

  I press my eyes closed and take a deep breath before I nod.

  She steps closer. “Do you understand me?”

  I keep my eyes open. “Yes.”

  “All right.”

  Emmy gets me a glass of water and some tissues, and the three of us settle on the couch. I rest my head on Emmy’s shoulder, and Luca’s head rests against mine. We’re like a little domino train half tipped over.

  And then I tell them everything that happened with Mom.

  “Is she going to stay in Portland?” Luca asks when I’m finished.

  “I don’t know,” I say, my voice cracking on the last word.

  Emmy sighs, squeezing me closer to her side. “You’re exhausted. We’re all exhausted. Let’s go to back to bed and get a little more rest. We’ll see everything clearer in the morning.”