The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,25

is the truth, Agnes.”

Sounded familiar. Agnes began to wonder if her mother and the doctor were conspiring and, just as quickly, refused to give in to paranoia. “I broke up with him. What more do you want from me? Do you want me to grovel, beg for your forgiveness for straying from The Path?”

“Don’t get hysterical, you’ll bust one of those stitches.”

“Oh, so now I’m crazy and can’t make my own decisions. Nice, Mother.”

“What do you mean ‘now’?”

“I hate you.”

“Why you would go to such lengths, I’ll never understand,” Martha said, trying to fix Agnes’s bandage.

“No, you never will,” Agnes said. She pulled her arm away. “I’m not afraid for my future. Not afraid to follow my heart.”

“How naïve. You’re young. You’ll figure it out.”

“You are so bitter. No wonder Dad left.”

Martha was livid. It was the most hurtful thing Agnes could have spit at her. And it was too late to take it away. But Agnes was actually relieved to release the elephant in the room. The ice rattled in Martha’s cocktail tumbler. “When I married your father—”

“You weren’t married; you were sacrificed,” Agnes cut in. “Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t talk to me like that. I am your mother.”

“Technically.”

“The Harrison boy is perfectly nice. Good family, the best schools, polite, well-spoken, SATs through the roof. He’s got everything you need to make it in life. Not like that Pineapple Express understudy you were dating.”

“Oh, please, Mother. Don’t start with the matchmaking again. It’s lame.”

“Because you are doing so well?”

“ ‘That Harrison boy’? You don’t even know his name. What is this, 1950? Besides, I’m sure he’s looking for one of those ‘dress for success’ types who’s a whore in the bedroom, just like all those other future Wall Streeters.”

“Don’t you dare speak that way to me!”

“Oh, but you can treat me like that. I just can’t say it out loud. I get it. I am nothing like that. Like him.”

“Opposites attract,” Martha spit back.

“I’m sixteen, Mother. I’m not looking for a Trump.”

“Would it hurt you to fish in a less polluted pond? Or do something with that hair falling all over the place? Throw some heels and makeup on. Sharpen up a little, for God’s sake.”

“How about a goddamn geisha getup? I know there is something better out there for me. I don’t need to have a master plan drawn up.”

“You don’t need to because I do all the heavy lifting, I make the sacrifices, so that you won’t have to.”

“You’re my mother! Do you need a medal?” Agnes screamed, frustrated at the level of selfishness.

They each took a breath.

“When I find it, I will know it. Instantly. It won’t take an audit to convince me,” Agnes continued.

“Find what, Agnes? You obviously don’t have a clue what you are looking for, flitting from loser to loser like some kind of serial romantic.”

“Love, Mother. Real love. A heart and a soul. Not a wallet with feet. Simple as that.”

“Please,” Martha pleaded. “Not another lecture about love at first sight, Agnes.”

Agnes stared her mother down. Both dripping resentment.

“You know how you explain love at first sight, Mother?”

Martha sighed. “No, how?”

“You don’t. That’s how.”

“Real love.” Martha just laughed derisively, practically gargling the words. “Don’t be so high and mighty.”

Agnes grabbed at her ears, trying to block out the skepticism, the rigidity, her mother cutting her down to size. She almost felt herself transported back to the therapy session with Dr. Frey, except this conversation was a bit more unprofessional.

“You were the one who insisted on Catholic school.”

“And I expected better results for the tuition I’m paying!”

Always back to money, Agnes thought. And guilt. She was a failure to her mother and her mother was a failure to her. She pursed her lips, trying to hold back the bile that had been building for months—actually years—and then exploded.

“Can’t you see? I don’t want to wind up like you and your Franken-Forty so-called friends. Drunk by dinnertime, blow jobs for Botox, and sleeping with their divorce settlements under their pillows.”

“Annulment.”

“So as long as the Church approves, it’s okay? You hypocrite.”

“Watch your mouth, young lady! You don’t know who you’re talking to!”

“And neither do you,” Agnes said. She stormed off to her room and slammed her door, almost breaking the glass doorknob and the mounted antlers that hung above it. Her room was her sanctuary. Her cocoon. It was as Zen as she could make it and exactly what she needed right then. Flooded with light, the high ceilings, dark wood floors, and blush walls were