Page 8 of Play Nice

“Leda. Leeds. Lee-Lee. Leda-ba-dee-da.”

She purses her lips, sighs again. “I really don’t like the idea of you there. With all of Alexandra’s…strange associates.”

“I’m a big girl,” I say.

It’s Daphne’s turn to scoff.

“What?” I ask, kicking her legs off the coffee table.

Leda interjects before Daphne can answer. “You can’t play the ‘I’m an adult’ card when you still have Dad do everything for you.”

“I appreciate your candor, but you’re wrong. Dad doesn’t do everything for me,” I say. “Just my—”

“Not just your taxes,” Leda says. “Setting up your internet. Mounting your TV. You don’t even have your Social Security number memorized.”

“So?” I ask, and her eyes go wide. I grin. “I’m kidding. I do too have it memorized. Sometimes I just reverse the last two numbers. Whatever.”

“My point stands. You call him for everything. Every little thing.”

“On a phone he pays for,” Daphne says. Traitor.

“You’re still on the family plan, same as me,” I say, tossing a decorative pillow at her.

She catches it. “Yeah, but I pay him. I pay for my phone.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Is this productive?” Daphne says, closing her eyes and hugging the pillow to her chest.

“I don’t know. Is it?” Leda asks, again with the hand on the hip. “You talk her out of it, then.”

“There’s no talking me out of it. It’s our mother’s funeral. I get not wanting her in our lives, not chasing a relationship after everything, but…” I trail off. “Why do I have to justify it to you? I respect your decision. I think it’s a bad one and don’t agree with it at all, but I respect it. Can’t you respect mine?”

“It’s not about respect, Clio. It’s about safety,” Leda says. “You don’t remember what it was like.”

That’s their trump card. I was too young to remember what they remember, too young to comprehend the damage being inflicted. The chaos of Mom fully losing her mind after Dad had enough of her drama and filed for divorce.

“I’m sorry, but I’m with Leeds here,” Daphne says.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t really…care?” I say, standing. “I don’t need your permission.”

They exchange a look of worry and frustration and maybe something else. Heartbreak. I blow them kisses, pick up the sangria pitcher, turn on my heel, and walk out of the room, escaping upstairs, where I can be alone.

—

My bedroom is still very much my bedroom, even though I moved out a decade ago, the week after I graduated high school, wasting no time. My bedding is the same old bedding, the art on the candy pink walls all pieces I picked out when I was a kid. Photographs of carousel horses and Paris in the rain. I was a baby romantic who fantasized about a beautiful future filled with beautiful things. A future that is now my present, my reality, mine.

Not this second, though. This second, I get to lie on top of the squeaky double mattress staring at the chandelier on the ceiling, watching the crystals reflect fading daylight, sipping sangria straight from the pitcher, being salty about my sisters.

Bored, I set the remaining sangria on my nightstand and slide off the bed, allowing gravity to deliver me to the floor. I lift the area rug to find the constellation of nail polish stains on the carpet. Proof of a childhood memory, an incident of reckless behavior, the momentary panic of retribution, the realization I could use tears to circumvent punishment, a promise to not do it again, sweet relief.

I’m grateful for it—the proof. The hard evidence. I wish I had more of it with Alexandra. There’s little to validate the memories of my mother. Despite what Dad and Leda and Daphne may think, I do have them—memories—but they’re hazy. Brief and confused, like waking from a vivid dream, one you can’t articulate anything that happened in, only that it happened, and it made you feel intensely.

No stains from my mother. Only scars.

I push up my sleeve and find the remnants of a small burn on my right forearm, the delicate skin above my inner wrist, where my veins are blue and faint and busy. It’s barely noticeable. A little pale, a little rough, the shape of an eye—round but coming to sharp, defined points on both ends. I could never bring myself to blame Mom for the injury, even though everyone else was convinced she was responsible. I don’t remember getting it, only having it. No one was ever keen to discuss the specifics, not Dad, not Amy, not my sisters, and I’ve now forever lost the opportunity to ask my mother.

Though, there is a good chance she mentions it in the book.