Beg For Me: Chapter 29

When Carter calls, I’m lying face down on my bed. I roll over, grab my phone from the nightstand, then lie flat on my back because I don’t have the mental energy to sit up.

“Hi.”

“Hi, baby. How’s it going?”

“Oh, splendid.”

“Why do you sound funny?”

“Remember how you had to carry my mother upstairs to bed?”

“Yeah?”

“Turns out, she can walk just fine on her own. She doesn’t need a wheelchair, and she doesn’t have dementia. All that was an act to annoy my brother into kicking her out of his house.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of effort only to annoy someone. Why didn’t she just leave if she didn’t like living with him?”

“She doesn’t want to live alone, and she knew I’d never take her in willingly, so she orchestrated this Machiavellian plot to make my brother think she was losing her marbles. I think it’s a combination of revenge for him not turning out how she wanted and deciding she didn’t want to go into assisted living with a bunch of strangers. She reviewed all her options, I came out on top, and now, she’s sitting in my kitchen drinking the last of my Bailey’s Irish Cream and criticizing my parenting.”

After a pause, he says, “And I thought you were scary.”

“There’s scary, then there’s Carmelina Bianco. Oh, and here’s the kicker! She has money saved up. Enough to put aside a nest egg for Harlow’s college education. So it sounds like she could easily afford to pay for an assisted living facility, she simply has no interest in moving into one. Why are you laughing?”

“It’s something straight out of a movie.”

“Yes, a horror movie. If she sprouted horns and cloven hooves, I wouldn’t even be surprised at this point.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Staring up at the tiny cracks in the ceiling, I sigh. “I wish they had those unwanted infant surrender programs they have at fire stations but for old people. I’d kick her out of the car as I was driving by the station. I wouldn’t even slow down.”

Now, he laughs even harder.

“Carter. You’re in danger.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I really am, it’s just fucking funny. Who does that?”

“An insane person! She’s nuts!”

“I dunno, it sounds like she’s pretty sharp to me.”

I say sourly, “That’s because your family’s in the Mafia.”

“Not even close. But I still maintain that it would be cool having all that money and power.”

“Think about what you just said.”

“Yeah, I know my family has money and power. But not like, no rules money and power.”

“So you want to be a dictator?”

He chuckles. “I can see you’re not in the mood for humor.”

“No, I’m in the mood for three martinis.”

“Go for a run instead. You’ll feel better.”

“Excuse me, but I’m a sane adult. I wouldn’t run down a public street unless I was being chased by someone with a knife. And stop laughing!”

“Ah, baby. You’re adorable when you’re stressed out. You know what you need? An orgasm.”

“Hmpf.”

“Was that an agreement?”

“In theory, yes, but I’ve got a grounded teenager and a wicked witch to deal with today. I can’t fit an orgasm into my schedule.”

“Well, just know it’s a standing offer. My tongue is on standby anytime you need it.”

“That makes me smile. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, your grace.”

I’m happy for a brief moment until I remember my brother said our mother had been ‘making messes’ in her pants, and that I’d need to buy adult diapers.

I almost hope she is incontinent. Because if she isn’t, and that was all part of her scheme…

I’m dealing with a monster.

“I better go. I left my mother downstairs with Harlow. She’s probably letting her drink gin straight from the bottle and giving a PowerPoint presentation on how to ruin people’s lives.”

He chuckles. “Okay, baby. Call me if you need me. I’m always here, even if you just need to vent.”

At least there’s one adult main character in my life who isn’t a villain.

We say our goodbyes and hang up. I shower and dress, then head back downstairs. My mother and Harlow are in the living room, playing cards on the coffee table.

I walk up and look over Harlow’s shoulder. “What’s this?”

“Poker. Grandma’s really good. She’s teaching me how to bluff.”

I send my mother a murderous look. She smiles at me and deals Harlow another card.

“Yes, your grandmother is good at a lot of things. Criminal things. May I speak to you for a moment, please? Alone.”

She looks at Harlow. “Oh dear. I’m in trouble.”

“Chill, Grams. Mom’s fair. But you need to start being nicer to her. She’s got enough problems already.”

My mother gazes at me with arched brows. “Problems?”

“I don’t have problems. You have problems. Kitchen. Now.”

She glances at Harlow, who nods. Only then does she stand and follow me.

I should probably take her into a different room where there aren’t so many sharp knives. With my mood as it is right now, I’m liable to start chopping off fingers.

Once we’re standing on either side of the kitchen table, out of earshot of Harlow, I say, “You can stay here until you find somewhere to move.”

She replies airily, “Oh, but that could take years! You know how terrible the cost of housing is. I’ll have to search high and low for something affordable.”

Through gritted teeth, I say, “Housing my ass. You’ve got two weeks, Mother.”

She purses her lips. “Two months.”

The nerve of this woman. The sheer fucking nerve!

“You’re not hearing me. Two. Weeks. If you’re not gone by then, I’ll evict you myself and change all the locks and our phone numbers.”

She pretends to be hurt, lifting a hand to her throat and gasping. “You’d kick your own mother out onto the street with nowhere to live?”

“You can’t scam me, Carmelina. I don’t feel sorry for you. I will never feel sorry for you. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and that’s what you need to do.”

She tries another tactic, this one even lower, the savage.

“Think of your daughter. It’s good for her to have family around.”

“Not when you’re the family.”

“For goodness’ sake, you’re acting as if I kill puppies for fun in my spare time.”

“I don’t care what you do in your spare time, as long as you’re far away from me when you’re doing it. Two weeks, Mother. That’s my final offer. If that’s not good enough for you, you can leave right now.”

She considers me in a faintly amused silence, a hint of a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she looks proud of me.

“All right, Sophia. Two weeks. Thank you.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to tell if she was being sarcastic with that thank you, but am distracted—and horrified—when she approaches me with her arms held out.

I stand rigid as she hugs me.

Her voice tremulous, she whispers, “You’re a good person. And a good mother. And I should’ve told you that I loved you when you were growing up. I apologize for not doing that. I was only trying to do what I thought was right.”

With a soft sob, she releases me, wiping at her eyes. She turns away and walks slowly toward the living room, her shoulders hunched as if she’s in distress.

“I’m not falling for it, you big faker!”

She straightens and gives me a thumbs-up without looking back. Chuckling, she calls out, “I always knew you were smarter than your brother.”

I swear on all that’s holy, if I don’t kill this woman before two weeks are up, it will be a miracle.

When the girls arrive that evening with their kids in tow, I usher everyone in with a big smile. Harlow’s got board games already set up in the living room, the pizzas I ordered have just been delivered, and several bottles of white wine have been chilled.

Except for me, Val, and Ev, the crowd moves into the living room.

“I have a surprise for you girls,” I say, smiling a brittle smile.

Handing me a bottle of wine, Val says, “You’re pregnant?”

“Ha-ha. Without a uterus, that would be pretty hard.”

Ev kisses me on the cheek and hands me another bottle of wine. “You’re engaged?”

“God, you two are a pair of jokers tonight, aren’t you? Come in.”

We wander into the kitchen, leaving the kids behind. They’ve known each other all their lives, have gone on family vacations together and spent countless hours in each other’s company, so I know they’ll be fine left alone to their own devices.

Val and Ev settle into chairs at the kitchen table, where wine glasses and a bucket with ice is waiting. I even went all out and made a cheese and charcuterie board, though I know we’ll be digging into that pizza as soon as we’ve had some wine.

“What’s your big surprise?” says Ev, sticking her bottle into the ice bucket.

I’m about to answer when I notice her mouth. Her lips are red and swollen as if she was stung by a swarm of bees. “Ev, what’s going on with your lips? Is that an allergic reaction?”

She snorts. “Yes, it’s an allergic reaction to getting old. I had lip filler.”

Val and I exchange a glance.

“Quit judging me, you two.”

I say, “There’s no judgment. I just didn’t think there was anything wrong with your other lips.”

“Well, I did. They were deflating.”

“Will that swelling go down or is that the final result?”

“It’ll go down. It hurts like a bitch, though. Brian kissed me, and I almost punched him.”

Val says, “I know a girl whose lip tissue died after injections. Big black holes on her mouth. Necrosis or something. It was gross.”

Evelyn says, “Thank you for that, Valerie, you heartless bitch.”

“I’m just saying that there can be complications.”

“There can be complications with Botox, too, but I don’t hear you squawking about that when you go to your aesthetician.”

“Botox has been around for ages. It’s way safer than filler. Right, Soph?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t tried either. I’m too scared of needles.”

I grab one of the chilled wines from the fridge, open it, and pour it into our glasses. Then I sit and grab a piece of Gouda. I’m chewing on it when I realize nobody’s saying anything.

“What?”

Incredulous, Val says, “You don’t do Botox?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“I have no idea, but you don’t have a single wrinkle on your face. What kind of sorcery is that?”

I shrug. “I’ve never smoked, and I wear sunscreen every day.”

From the doorway, a voice says, “And she’s Italian. Good skin runs in the family. I should know, I’m her mother.”

Val and Ev turn to see her standing there, then turn back to me with identical expressions of horror.

I mutter, “Surprise.”

My mother pulls up a chair and sits next to me. Gesturing impatiently for someone to pour her a glass of wine, she says in a conversational tone, “You should’ve seen my grandmother, Lucia. What a stunner. She lived to be a hundred and ten and didn’t look a day over seventy. It’s all that olive oil they eat in Sicily. Plus the fresh food. No junk food back then. None of this GMO Frankenfood nonsense.”

As my friends are frozen in shock, I pour the wine and hand my mother her glass. She sips from it, smacks her lips, and sighs in satisfaction.

“Hello, girls.”

Blinking in disbelief, Ev says, “Uh. Hello.”

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. Did Sophia tell you I was already dead?”

She turns to Val. “I remember you, Sally. Or was it Annie? Doesn’t matter, the point is that I remember I wasn’t very nice to you that time we met, and I’d like to apologize. It’s bothered me for years. That look on your face.”

She shudders, as if the memory of Val’s pain is offensive, not what caused it. “Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive me. So! What’s new with you two?”

When they stare at me in stunned silence, I say drily, “Yes, it’s a laugh a minute around here. Welcome to the asylum, ladies, where the inmates are in charge.”

Just then, someone knocks on the front door. I practically jump out of my seat, spilling my wine all over my arm.

My mother frowns at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

I glower at her. “It’s probably just a little PTSD from what happened the last time somebody knocked on the door.”

She clucks her tongue. “Don’t be melodramatic, Sophia. It’s unbecoming.”

I rise and head toward the door. Unfortunately, I forget to check the peep hole. Because when I pull the door open, my seething ex-husband stands on my front step.

Before I can say a word, he snaps, “We need to talk.”

Inhaling a calming breath, I pull back my shoulders and meet his angry gaze with a level one of my own. “Go home, Nick. Enjoy your weekend. We’ll talk Monday.”

“You better let me in this fucking house before I call the police and have you arrested for child endangerment.”

“Stop it, Nick. I mean it. Go away.”

I start to close the door, but he flattens his hand against it and gives it such a hard shove, I stumble back and collide with the console. I lose my balance and fall, landing hard on my hip.

Unlike the living room, the foyer isn’t carpeted. Flagstone is about as unyielding a surface as you can get.

Pain shooting through my hip, I stare up at him, stunned, as he looms over me.

“This is my fucking house!” he shouts, spittle flying from his lips. “Everything in it belongs to me, do you understand? It belongs to ME!”

His furious voice rings in my ears. My heart races, my hip throbs, and I can’t catch my breath. I’m aware of the sudden silence in the living room, of all the kids gaping at us in terror from around the coffee table, and I remember in a flash what Carter said about keeping a record of my interactions with Nick.

Then I wish I had something—anything—to protect myself with because Nick is bending down to me, his teeth bared and his hands balled to fists.

There’s a split second where I think I’m about to be physically harmed by the father of my child before a sharp female voice slices through my frozen disbelief.

“Hey! Coglione! Lay a finger on my daughter, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do!”

My mother stands a few feet behind me, legs spread, expression fierce, eyes black with rage.

In her right hand, she grips a meat cleaver.

When Nick doesn’t move and only stares at her, nostrils flared, she takes a step forward and brandishes the knife. She hisses something in Italian, a true bog witch casting a curse.

I had no idea my mother spoke Italian.

Never once in my life did she mention it, not even when I told her I was learning the language before my honeymoon to Florence.

Heart thudding, I say shakily to Nick, “She says back off or her people will be coming for you.”

He curls his lip. “Your people? Who, Carmelina? The AARP? Fuck you.”

She deftly switches the knife to her left hand, strides over to him, and smacks him clean across his face. All five-foot-nothing of a white-haired old lady, in orthopedic shoes and a beige cardigan sweater, she slaps Nick across the face with such force, his head snaps back.

Holding his cheek, he stares at her in shock.

Lips thinned and eyes narrowed, she raises the cleaver.

He assesses her for a moment, no doubt wondering if she’s bluffing, then decides it’s not worth the risk.

He spins on his heel and walks out.

When his car roars away from the curb, my mother lowers the knife, turns to me, and calmly smiles.

“I think I should stay longer than two weeks. You and Harlow need protection.”