The Wall of Winnipeg and Me - Mariana Zapata Page 0,92
Explorer a little more forcefully than I needed to and took off, hoping to catch my flight.
* * *
“I thought you were bringing a friend,” my mom noted almost immediately after ushering me through the door.
I blew out a breath and rolled my shoulders, pasting a tight smile on my face. I took in the tall, slim, and nearly blonde woman who I used to think was so beautiful when I was a little kid and in her far and few between moments of being wonderful. Especially then. I’d loved the hell out of her before I knew better, and that thought made my heart ache for kid-Vanessa who hadn’t known any better for a while.
It was easy to forget someone so perfect looking had once been a functioning alcoholic. Then again, that’s why she’d gone so long without anyone noticing she had a problem. Luckily, she was fine now, which was why I’d come so far for her birthday.
On the flight over, I’d mentally prepared myself for this situation and what was the best way to handle it. We already had one idiot in the family thanks to Susie. We didn’t need another one. So I was going to play dumb and downplay it.
“He had something come up at the last minute,” I explained vaguely, looking around the house I’d only been in a handful of times before. It was nice. Really nice. Her husband of the last five years was a divorce attorney she’d met at AA. He seemed like a nice enough guy and my little brother had spoken very highly of him.
“That’s too bad,” my mom said. I could sense her looking me over. “You don’t want to bring your bag inside?”
I made sure to meet her eyes before I answered. I didn’t want to feel ashamed for not wanting to stay with her, and I wouldn’t let myself be. If she really put her mind to it, she’d remember how shitty things went when I stayed with her. “I checked in to my hotel already.”
The truth was, I’d checked into my hotel the day before. Afterwards, I’d gone to see my foster parents and had dinner there. I talked to my foster dad pretty often—in my case once every few weeks was often—and told them I’d married Aiden. My foster dad had looked at me from across the table where I’d eaten dinner seven days a week for four years of my life and asked in a serious voice, “You couldn’t have married someone who plays for Houston?”
I’d forgotten how much he hated the Three Hundreds.
This morning I’d had breakfast with my foster mom. But I didn’t tell my mom about any of those things. Anytime I brought up my foster parents, this glazed look came over her eye that I wasn’t fond of.
“Oh.” It was the sharp inhale before her smile that told me she understood enough. “In that case, I’m glad you’re here early.”
I smiled back at her, a small one, a half-assed one. “Do you need help with anything for the party?”
“We almost have everything together already…” she trailed off, her features turning unnecessarily bright. Forced.
This sudden feeling of dread put me on alert. “Who helped?”
She named her husband. Slipping her arm over my shoulder, she pulled me into her side, kissing my forehead—I fought that tiny urge to pull away from her—and I knew. I fucking knew what she was going to say. “And Susie and Ricky.”
My entire body went rigid. I swear, even my knee started aching in recognition. My heart went double-time.
“Vanessa,” my mom said my name like it was made of eggshells. “They’ve been staying with us. I didn’t want to tell you because I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
I wouldn’t have. She had that right.
“She’s your sister,” Mom said, giving me a shake that wasn’t distracting me from the fact I was going to have to count to a thousand so I wouldn’t lose it. “She’s your sister,” she repeated.
Susie was a lot of things, and a fucking bitch was at the top of the list. Anxiety and a not insignificant amount of anger flooded my veins. How could she do this?
“Vanessa, please.”
Why would she try to ambush me like this? First it was Aiden. Now it was my own mom ambushing me with Susie and her asshole.
“Be nice. For me,” she insisted.
I was going to end up at the liquor store before the day was over. I could already feel it.