Real Bad Things(82)

“Jason lied?” Diane crumpled to the carpet in tears.

“Yes, your beloved son. He lied to you.” Jane wielded every word like a hammer, wanting to inflict as much pain as possible. “He let me take the blame even though he knew Georgia Lee killed Warren. He protected her.” It pained her to say those words out loud. “He lied to me too.”

Diane sniffled and wiped her face on the bottom of her shirt. Little ripples of belly flesh hung over her pants. Jane hated to see the scars and ruined skin that childbirth had wrought and that had never left despite her thin frame. Jane and Jason still clung to her, no matter how hard she’d tried to rid herself of them.

“Why would he lie? To me?” The volume and pitch of each word grew as it escaped her mouth.

“You’re upset that Jason lied about Georgia Lee but not me?” She tried to tamp down the incoming anger, but it swarmed. “You told me you hoped I’d fry in the electric chair. Even though you knew I didn’t do it.” Tears poured down her face. “You knew I didn’t do it. And you said those things to me.”

Diane shook a finger. “All you had to do was behave. But you couldn’t do that. You had to egg him on. Make him mad. And then you turned Jason against Warren. Against me.”

The words whiplashed Jane. “How could you say that? You watched us cry and worry about every little thing we did. And when Warren hit me, you told me not to tell anyone!”

Diane’s face didn’t crumple. Instead, she burrowed down into resentment. Her frown lines deepened along her mouth. “He never hit you.”

“Now who’s lying?” Jane squatted in front of her. She didn’t need a barrier now. She wasn’t a little kid anymore. “He hit you, and you asked us to lie. He hit me, and you asked us to lie. Then he hit Jason. If you’d seen it, you would have asked him to lie too.”

“He never touched Jason.” Little bits of spittle hit Jane’s lips. She swiped her arm across her mouth.

“He did. But the last time was down by the river. He hit Jason. And Georgia Lee did what you should have done all along but never had the courage to do. You’ve never been a mother to him, and you certainly haven’t been one to me.”

The slap came as a shock. Then the next and the next. The flurry of Diane’s hands startling and propulsive. Jane finally captured both of Diane’s arms and pinned them behind her, not without catching an elbow to the eye and another to the ribs. Diane struggled like a catfish on the line. Jane wrestled her to the carpet, and all the while they simultaneously yelled at each other to stop. A cacophony of wallops and words.

At last, Diane stilled.

Jane let herself believe their struggle had come to its end, but as soon as she loosened her grip, Diane headbutted her. Jane collapsed backward and gripped her forehead. Stars spotted the ceiling. She snaked her way to the couch and slumped against it. Diane strung her limbs haphazardly against a kitchen table chair that had been knocked askew and on its side. Her hair hung in strands across her face. Her cheeks flushed with rage and exertion. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession. She looked like a trapped animal.

“Warren never hit you. He never hit any of us,” Diane said.

There was no fighting her. No winning. No logic or reasoning.

“He wasn’t the one who gave you a concussion either.” A string of spit fell from Diane’s mouth onto her shirt. “That was me.”

Jane didn’t want to feel anything. She wanted to be dead to this world and this woman. Despite everything in her that shouted to be calm, try to reason with her, Jane’s heart pounded with want.

“Mom . . . ,” she pleaded. Her throat tightened around the question she’d always wanted and been afraid to ask. “Do you really hate me so much?”

The pause said it all, but Diane lifted her head in defiance. “I don’t hate you.” Diane’s mouth curled into a snarl. “Most days, I don’t even think about you.”

The love of a mother was something everyone talked about. Like it was a promise. A guarantee. A foregone conclusion. If this were a movie, Jane and Diane would somehow figure out how to resolve their differences. They’d have a difficult but heartwarming reunion. The audience would understand why Jane was mad, but they’d still ask her to forgive Diane so she could be forgiven herself for harboring such ill will toward her mother. After all, Diane had been a battered woman. Sure, she’d done some battering herself. If Jane didn’t reconcile, she’d be the bad guy. Not Diane. Because maybe Diane hadn’t known any better. Maybe her parents had not loved her enough. Or maybe they had loved her enough, and Diane was simply flawed. Who didn’t love a flawed character? Movie Diane, unlike Real Diane, would fall to her knees and cry. She’d proclaim her sorrow and sorries about the things she’d let slide. The things she’d done. She’d been emotionally compromised. And Movie Jane would go to Movie Diane. They’d embrace. They’d cry. They’d forge a new life out of the ashes of the old.

But this was real life.

Jane stood. Diane mirrored her. They faced each other.

“What happened to the guy with the missing finger?” Jane’s chest tightened from nerves. “Your old boyfriend. What was his name?”

Panic shadowed Diane’s face and then disappeared as quickly as it’d come. “Who?”