By her twentieth birthday, there are a few things Valarie Ricci knows for certain.
She knows that her waitressing job barely covers the costs of living out of a beat up old van. She knows she's stuck in the dead end hometown her high school friends...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Valarie had never been ashamed of her mom before. Not as a child, not as a teenager. Not even in response to the things Nonno and Nonna used to say about her when Valarie was growing up. She remembered the hard-boiled frustration and disappointment in their voices when they argued over Valarie's head or murmured quietly in the front seat of the car, sparing stray, worried glances back at her. The late night conversations they thought Valarie couldn't hear, dipping in and out of two languages.
She would never forget the way Nonna could scream, like the world was ending, as she savagely flung accusation after plea after insult at Valarie's mother. Lazy. Disgraceful. Selfish. They were too old to raise another child from scratch, and their own daughter was trying to kill them. Nonna would parade Valarie out in front of her mom during these arguments, as if to say here, look at your failure.
It never stopped the weeks-long thrill Valarie would feel around her mom's increasingly infrequent visits when she was a kid, like she'd swallowed the sun whole. She accepted Mom for who she was, and Mom had always done the same for her. They were allies, just the two of them. Mom never got mad if Valarie couldn't understand her homework; she spoke to Valarie like she wasn't stupid, like she wasn't just a little kid who knew nothing. In return, Valarie did not demand, did not ask questions, did not push the limits they both knew were between them. She took what was given and did not ask for more.
It wasn't until Alice's dad had to navigate past the cop car parked in Valarie's driveway to pick up his daughter from movie night that Valarie felt like she could properly scream at her Mom. Scream like Nonna used to scream. But, of course, she wasn't there to be screamed at, and it would take another two hours for social services to even get in contact with her mom. Two humiliating hours that Valarie spent lying–poorly–through a tight smile as Nonno worked himself up into an anxious fugue, repeating and repeating the same questions. Her continual assurances that Mom was Nonno's caretaker rang more and more hollow as time dragged on.
They were on the verge of hospitalising Nonno for the night when Mom finally, mercifully picked up her fucking phone. And as Valarie watched the social services lady argue with mom over the phone, there it was, creeping up through her stomach and throat like a slow sickness: shame. She could have choked on it. Shame that there were strangers in her house. Shame that Nonno wasn't in bed. Shame that Mom so routinely ignored her calls. Shame about what Alice's dad would think–if he'd ever let Alice come near here again. Shame that Valarie couldn't control any of it, that these people wouldn't listen to her or trust her to take care of her own grandfather. She felt like a little kid again, hearing everyone talk around her like it didn't even matter if she was there or not. Her ally had abandoned her.
When Mom showed up the next morning in her typical whirlwind fashion, acting as if she'd just docked from a months long boat journey instead of a six hour car ride, she brought with her a man Valarie had never seen before. They looked like they were wearing two halves of the same outfit, threadbare clothes that almost matched but didn't.
