Mister Tender's Girl

by Carter Wilson

  “Did he act angry?”

  “Not that rubbed off on me, anyway. Was cool as ever, just quiet. But he did ask me again about my girls and what I meant about them being obsessed with the books. I told him…”

  Maggie looks up, searching her memory.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Said something to the effect that they were in love with a charming bartender, and I understood them. That I knew what it meant for a man to be able to talk you into just about anything. Anyway, I think at that point my girlfriend got a little worried and steered us to a table. She probably thought I was going to bring him home with us.”

  “Was that it?”

  She holds a hand up, as if taking an oath. “Never talked to him again.”

  I ask one last time. “Any other detail you remember?”

  She sighs. “I’ve told you what I remember. But mostly, I don’t try to remember things any more. My life was over the night my little girls tried to kill you, and since then I’ve just been waiting to die, holed up in a bar every day, spraying weeds with poison.”

  Just like Charles. Living life from one bleak moment to the next, waiting for all of it to end. The little brown-haired twins had ripped through many lives.

  “You should talk to your parents,” Maggie says.

  “My dad is dead,” I say.

  The pained look in her face seems beyond her acting skills. “Oh, that is a shame. Nice man, your father.” She sighs. “Dust to dust, I suppose.”

  Maggie doesn’t ask what happened to him, and I don’t offer to tell her. Our time here together is ending, and I use the momentary silence to swallow the rest of my drink. It burns, which is at least momentarily distracting.

  “Talk to your mum, then. If you want to, ask her about Jack. She’s the only one who knows it all.”

  But my mother has had years to tell me everything, while this relative stranger revealed so much in only minutes. Whatever else my mother has to say about the past, it’s locked deep inside her. She’s convinced herself of new truths by now.

  A silence falls on this unhappy, stale place. Maggie waiting for my next words. Me, too dizzy with gin and reality to speak.

  Then the man on the barstool to my right lifts his head from his drink and turns to me. Pete, I remember. He’s been silent the whole time, and though he sits only a couple of feet from me, I’d forgotten he was even here.

  “Alice Hill,” he says. “I think I remember that story. So long ago, but I remember it.” His voice is dry and scratchy, as if years of flowing alcohol have carved canyons in his throat. “I sold insurance back then. Whole life. Term. Umbrella. That was the last job I ever had.” He lifts a softly quivering hand and sips out of his shot glass, preserving the last little bit. “And I remember reading the story about you, Alice Hill. And I remember thinking, what a goddamn shame everything is.” He grimaces as if passing painful gas, then looks at me with his ghost-blue eyes. “But you know what? You’re just one story out of millions. One tragedy out of all the countless tragedies that fuel the world. Just a speck of sorrow on this whole shitbed of a planet.”

  With that, Pete de-animates back to his drink, gaze returned to the bar top, dormant once more.

  Of everything I’ve heard today, his is the truth most pure.

  Forty-Two

  My mother’s car is in her driveway. They’re home. They’re always home.

  My chest rattles as I exit my car and walk up the path to the house. The rattle spreads through my body, chilling me, and I envision all the ghosts from the cemetery rising from their graves and snaking into my bloodstream, voodoo heroin.

  It’s not rage that fills me as I let myself into the house. I don’t think I have any space left in me for that. I don’t even know what I hope to accomplish here. But I need to know who my mother is, because she is a stranger to me.

  I cross the living room, dark and dusty. Curtains drawn against the daylight, stillness abounds. For a moment, I think of the twins’ flat, that insulated capsule damming the evil inside, the musty smell, shadows in the corners.

  I don’t announce myself.

  Murmuring. Soft. Coming from the kitchen.

  My mother’s voice is faint and pleasant, singsongy, a nanny reciting nursery rhymes while tucking the little ones tight beneath the sheets at bedtime. She’s talking either to herself or maybe on the phone. I don’t hear anyone else.

  She’s in the kitchen. I can just make out the slightest whiff of spice in the air. Tea.

  I start walking again, which is now more of a creep. I’m afraid to find her in a vulnerable moment, doing something we only do when we think we’re completely and totally alone. Yet somehow that’s what I want. I want to see her, if even for a second, as who she really is. Catch her without her mask on.

  Another voice.

  Thomas.

  He’s not really talking, just a few monotone syllables.

  A couple more steps. I’m as quiet as I can be, because part of me wants to keep the option of spirting away without her ever having known I was here.

  “There you go. That’s my boy.”

  I’m close to the kitchen now, and these are the first words I make out clearly.

  Seconds later, I’m standing just outside the opening to the kitchen, and I angle myself so I can just make out the sight of my mother at the kitchen table. She’s sitting with her side to me, and both her arms are resting on the tabletop. Spread out in front of her is an array of different-colored pills, scattered along the gleaming wooden tabletop like a child’s Halloween loot.

  She picks up a pill.

  “This one makes you happy, do you remember that, dear?”

  She’s talking to Thomas, who must be sitting across from her, though I can’t see him from my viewpoint.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Oh, yes, it does. Especially if you take it with one of these.” She picks up another pill and places them both now in her right palm, holding them out to my brother.

  “But that happiness doesn’t last long, does it? It never does with you. You’re a very sick boy, Thomas. I don’t know why God doesn’t love you, but that’s what I’m here for.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  His words are slow and slurred, as if sleep talking.

  “Only I know the right combination of these pills to keep you alive. You know that, right? The doctors think they know, but there’s not a soul on this earth who knows my boy like I do.”

  “No one.”

  “So it’s very important you take only the pills I tell you to take. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  As I watch in stunned silence, one thought loops over and over in my head. I’m witnessing a murder. Just like in my dream, where my mother drowns Thomas. Only this is a slow, torturous drowning, years in the making.

  “I calmed you down, didn’t I?” she asks. “You were out of control, Thomas, and if I hadn’t given you the right medication, you could’ve hurt both of us. I know you’re tired and weak, but isn’t that better than being full of hate?”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  “I know, love. But first you need to take these. You’re always going to be sick, but they’ll make you happy for a little while.”

  “I don’t…” His voice trails into a whisper.

  “Do as I say, Thomas.” She places the pills back on the table and pushes them across the table. “Then you can go to sleep.”

  I step into the kitchen.

  “Thomas, don’t.”

  My mother jumps in her chair.

  “Alice, for the love of God, you scared me.”

  I ignore her and focus on my brother, who is now in full view. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a red hoodie, which hangs loosely over his head. Face pointed to the table, like a schoolboy receiving a stern lecturing. He doesn’t e
ven look over at me. He’s aware of nothing beyond the pills in front of him.

  “Thomas, don’t take any more pills.”

  “Alice, what are you—”

  My brother gingerly plucks two pills from the table and uses his other hand to lift the can of nearby Coke.

  “No!” Now I dash, and it takes only three strides to reach the table and smack the pills from his hand. Thomas drops the Coke, which tumbles onto its side and spills its contents over the tabletop.

  My mother leaps to her feet. “Alice! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you can’t—”

  I swipe my arm along the tabletop, sending all the rest of the multicolored pills flying, along with a rain of soda.

  “Alice,” Thomas says in a voice that’s hauntingly calm. “I need those.”

  My mother is screaming at me, but I block her out. Instead, I grab Thomas by the shoulders and force him to focus on me. “Thomas, Thomas, please listen to me. She’s poisoning you. She has been this whole time. Everything she says is a lie, and it’s ending now. Right now. Okay? You’re coming with me. It’s all going to get better.”

  A force slams into me. My balance is gone, and I’m tumbling to the floor. As I land hard on the tile, I look up at my mother. She shoved me. She’s never in her life laid a hand on me until now.

  “You watch your mouth, you insolent little girl. You’ve gone mad again.”

  Thomas says nothing.

  I leap to my feet, and she looks ready to charge. I look at her as I never have before, as a physical threat, and my body instinctively responds. Defensive stance, right foot back for balance. Hands raised to face level, core tight. I will not attack her, but I won’t let her attack me, either.

  She is shaking with rage, face glistening with sweat. But she doesn’t move.

  “You brat,” she says. “You spoiled, ungrateful fucking brat.”

  “Thomas,” I say, keeping my gaze fixed on my mother. “Everything is a lie. I found out Dad isn’t even my real dad. I found out Mister Tender is based on a real person, and I’m his daughter.”

  “Shut your mouth,” she says.

  “She never told us. That’s why they were always fighting. Dad knew about Mom’s affair but never left her. He should have.”

  She starts to move toward me, and I brace for her. “Don’t,” I say. “Do you really think you can hurt me? You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re insane, always have been.”

  Thomas says nothing.

  An electric silence crackles between us. Her chest heaves up and down, and I’m vaguely hopeful she’s on the verge of a massive heart attack.

  “That’s it,” she says. “I’m calling the police. Let them take you to the looney bin.” She turns toward the phone on the counter.

  “Good idea,” I say. “Call the police. They’ll want to see all these pills. You have prescriptions for all of these?” She freezes. “I know what Thomas has been diagnosed with, and I know he hasn’t been prescribed all these different medications. You’re keeping him as a drugged prisoner just so you can tell all the world about the burdens of your life.”

  The dream comes back again. My mother walking calmly from the surf to the shore, as little Thomas sinks beneath black waters. To him, I say, “I don’t think you were ever sick, Thomas. That’s why the doctors could never figure out what was wrong. Don’t you see? She got addicted to all the attention she received after I was attacked, but that faded. She needed something else to feed into, something that could last a long time. She poisoned you and has been doing it ever since you were fifteen.”

  “You bitch,” she hisses. Another first for her. “You diseased little bitch.”

  Now Thomas looks at me for the first time. His eyes are clouded with hopelessness.

  “I know,” he says.

  My heart shatters in the echo of those two words.

  “I know what’s she’s doing, Alice. But I need her.”

  “Thomas…” I start. I don’t even know what to say. His innocence kills me. He’s so far gone. Maybe too far gone.

  His gaze goes back to the table, and he takes his index finger and starts slowly dragging the tip of it through the spilled Coke, creating sticky caramel whiskers along the wooden surface.

  “You have to come with me, Thomas,” I say. “Tonight. Right now.”

  “I need my pills, Alice.” He says this to the table. “You’ve seen what happens when I go a day without them. Murder.”

  “What is he talking about?” my mother asks.

  “I don’t know,” I lie. Thankfully, Thomas doesn’t explain.

  “Well, he’s not going anywhere,” she says. “You’re not fit to even take care of yourself.”

  She’s facing me again, and rather than take a defensive posture, I take a step until I’m only inches from her. Then I act on an impulse, powerful and unexpected. I reach out and take her in my arms, hug her, hold her tight. She’s burning up, and her heat transfers to me. She stiffens, resists at first, but I hold fast, anchor myself to her, and as I start to hear her cry, my mother finally holds me back.

  Then she breaks down. Her legs buckle just enough to make me work to keep us both upright, and from her emits a long, low wail, the most sorrowful sound I’ve ever heard. Pure, uncloaked desperation. After that, the tears pour, and I keep holding. I can’t even think of the last time I’ve heard my mother cry. This lasts minutes.

  Finally, she composes herself enough to wonder aloud, “What have we all become?”

  I press my face into her shoulder and say, “I feel like I don’t even know what’s real anymore. But the only thing I’m certain of is I need to get Thomas out of here. You know that.”

  I pull back, and she stares at me with wide, tear-filled eyes snaked with blood vessels. She nods at me. Actually nods.

  “I know. I know.”

  “I’m taking him now, Mom. Okay?”

  I recognize the detached expression on her face. I’ve seen it in the mirror, on the far side of a panic attack. There’s utter honesty there. Self-assessment that burns like acid. I’m not sure she’s ever been to this place before.

  “Okay,” she says. “Take the yellow pills. He does need those. At least for a while.”

  “I will, Mom. Okay, I will.”

  She’s distant now, just like Thomas. Floating in some other realm. I wonder what that feels like for her.

  “He ruins everything he touches. Don’t let him touch you, Alice.”

  I don’t ask her who. I don’t need to. I know she’s not talking about Thomas.

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m a terrible person,” she says. “And yet I’m not. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  “I hurt him just so he had to rely on me. I’m a monster.”

  I don’t reply to this. I don’t even think she’s talking to me.

  I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. To my recollection, I’ve never done that in my life.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever see you again,” I say.

  A fresh tear escapes down her cheek. Another nod.

  “I might kill myself tonight,” she says. There’s a chilling stillness in her words, and I can tell, for once, she’s not looking for attention. She’s stating a fact. “Maybe I’ll take enough of the pills, and that will be that.”

  God help me, I don’t try to dissuade her. Instead, I reach to the table and scoop all the yellow pills I can find that haven’t been dissolved by the Coke, then slide them into my pocket. I reach down and touch my brother on the shoulder.

  “Thomas, come on.”

  He looks at me, and those hopeless eyes have just a glimmer of a spark.

  “Where are we going?”

  I think about that for a second, and t
hen answer the way Dad would.

  “We’re going for a ride on the back of a giant penguin.”

  Forty-Three

  We arrive home just past four in the afternoon. As soon as I lead Thomas inside my house, my phone buzzes with a text.

  Where have you been?

  It’s from him.

  There is so much loaded into those four words. He’s making me think he actually lost sight of me, which may or may not be true.

  Finding out who you are, I reply.

  A pause, and then:

  What have you learned?

  I get Thomas to my couch, then get a blanket and drape it over him. I sit next to his feet, and as he slips further into the stupor from whatever my mother gave him, my own heart starts racing. It’s all too much.

  Another text.

  I’ve always been with you, Alice. I’m the one you were always meant to be with.

  Chest cramping, cheeks flushing. Impending panic attack. God, I’m such a victim.

  Then, I see it all in front of me as I stare at his words on my phone. Even when I didn’t know he existed, he was still in control of my mind. For fourteen years, he’s been in control, and all I have to do to escape my mental and emotional shackles is get rid of him. I don’t care if he’s my biological father or some random lunatic. I was never sure what I would do if and when I finally found Mr. Interested, but it’s suddenly and beautifully clear to me.

  I am going to kill him.

  There can be no hesitation. When I find him, I will kill him, no matter the consequences. I’d rather be in actual prison than the mental cell to which I’ve been confined for so long. I’ll never be free as long as he’s alive.

  I reply to him.

  Where are you? It’s time for this to be over.

  He doesn’t write back.

  A headache comes full force, and now my whole body heats up. Breathing comes with more effort, as if I’m slowly climbing into thinner and thinner air. The attack is coming, and I know there’s no stopping it.

  Let it come.

  Why not?

  Come, take me.

  Move to the kitchen. Grab a bottle of wine and pour a large glass, which I gulp down in seconds. If I’m going through this tonight, I’m going through it damaged. Dulled and beaten. Pour another glass and think about the yellow pills I brought home with me. Three or four pills, I think. That’s all it would take, washed down with the rest of this bottle of wine. Death by merlot. It would be so easy. In fact, it would be the easiest thing I’ve ever done. All the struggles would be gone. Screw killing the man who's stalking me—I’ll just kill myself. Falling asleep would finally come with no effort at all. I would just slip away, like a small boat pulled out by the tides into the vast ocean.