Now You See Her Page 0,63
people wear when they were placed under house arrest, which seemed prophetic, even appropriate, she thought, under the circumstances.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, Devon.”
“I’m not in trouble.” Devon leaned back against her pillows, her eyes already glazing over with boredom. “Our lawyer’s going to get me off.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“He got me out on bail, didn’t he?”
“That’s different.”
“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know about the drugs.”
“I don’t believe you,” Marcy told her.
“Naturally.” Devon sniffed dismissively.
“Even if I did believe you, it’s irrelevant. The fact is you were there. You were with a man the police have identified as a known drug dealer—”
“His name is Tony and he’s not a drug dealer.”
“I don’t care what he is. You’re not to see him again.”
“What?”
“This is not up for discussion.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“I’m talking. You’re listening. Remember?” Marcy told her.
“I’m over twenty-one. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“As long as you live in this house, I can and I will.”
Devon jumped off the bed, flew toward her mother, arms flailing. “Then I guess I’ll just have to move out.”
Marcy didn’t flinch, her toes digging into the bottoms of her shoes as if to root her in place. “I remind you that one of the conditions of your bail is that you continue to live at home.”
“So now you’re my jailer?”
“I’m your mother.”
“Yeah. Great job of that you’re doing.”
“This is not about me.”
“No? This is your fault, you know. It’s your rotten genes I inherited.”
“And I’m sorry for that. I really am. Yes, you got dealt a rotten hand. Believe me, I wish I could wave some sort of magic wand and have all your pain disappear. But I can’t. And you’re not a child anymore, Devon. You’re an adult. At some point you have to play the cards you were given, you have to start taking responsibility for your own life.”
“Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“How? By hanging around with losers, by getting arrested, by doing drugs?”
“I thought you wanted me to take drugs.”
“Taking your medication is hardly the same thing.”
“You’re right. Your drugs make me feel bad. My drugs make me feel good.”
“Devon, this is ridiculous. You’re acting like a twelve-year-old.”
“I am twelve years old! Like it or not, Mommy, that’s all I am.”
“Well, I don’t like it!” Marcy shot back, her patience spent. “I don’t like it one damn bit. I’m tired of being the mother of a twelve-year-old child. I want to be the mother of a twenty-one-year-old woman. Do you hear me, Devon? Do you understand? I’m tired of parenting.” She burst into a flood of angry, bitter tears. “I’ve been a parent since I was a child, and I’m sick of it. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to do it anymore. Do you hear me?”
She braced herself for Devon’s fiery response, another war of words she’d inevitably lose, leaving her limp and exhausted, her body covered with invisible scars and bruises. Instead Devon wrapped her arms around her mother and held her close. “I hear you, Mommy,” she said softly.
“CAN YOU HEAR me?” a voice was asking from somewhere in the distance. “Marcy, can you hear me?”
Marcy opened her eyes to find two worried faces staring down at her. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked around. She was lying on a small, brown velvet sofa in the middle of a tiny room. There was a fireplace on the opposite wall and a faded orange chair in the far corner. A standing lamp with a pleated shade and a water-stained coffee table completed the decor. The walls were covered in beige-flowered wallpaper. Matching curtains covered the front window. “What happened?” she asked warily.
“You fainted,” Liam told her.
Marcy swung her feet onto the worn wool carpet of the floor. “Where’s Audrey?” she asked the young blond woman standing beside Liam.
Audrey suddenly appeared in the doorway, the tray in her hands holding a steaming pot of tea, four mugs, and a plate of freshly baked muffins. “I’m right here,” she said.
EIGHTEEN
SO, HOW LONG HAVE you been living in Youghal?” Liam asked as they sipped their tea. He was sitting on the sofa beside Marcy. The blond girl, who was about thirty and whose name was Claire, had pulled the orange chair closer to the coffee table and was curled up inside it. Audrey sat on the floor at her feet.
“Just a few months,” Claire answered. “There’s still a lot we want to do with the place—get rid of