But you know what? Actually? She felt good about it. She did. She’d raised an independent young woman. A warrior princess. A young woman so intent on getting what she needed she hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye. To her own mother. That was bold. That was awesome. Because if Vicky had said goodbye, Debi would’ve tried to talk her out of it. She’d loved that kid so much. She would have said, like: Okay, look, agreed, I’m a mess, there are too many men in my life, I’m not always available to help you with—whatever, algebra or whatnot—but give me another chance, and I’ll be more focused on you and your needs, and will totally disavow who I am (a person always trying to say yes to life) and will do my best (hereby resolved!) to start saying no to life, and very fakely pouring myself into that constricting mold you seem to prefer me in (“Perfect Robotic Mother”), so that nothing I do will ever challenge you in the least or make you step even an inch outside your tiny restrictive comfort—­

Alma was paused now across the street. Glaring at her. As if stuck.

What’s up, kid? What do you want? A bow? A salute? A wave?

Here you go, pal.

Care to wave back, Your Majesty?

No?

Fine.

Far be it from her to judge. Anyone. At any time. To judge was to dominate. To place yourself above another. Which she refused to do. Some would. Many did.

Not her.

Although wouldn’t it be a hoot when Alma kicked the bucket and Saint Whoever was like: Why so mean? Why so proud? Why such a hypocrite? Did you not find life beautiful? Where was your heart? Why did you squander your precious life force trying to possess, control, interfere?

And Alma, newly dead, would stand there, stunned, like: I’m having a realization right now. Who was correct? Debi. Who was wrong? Me, Alma. Then they’d show the movie of her life, and Alma would see what a fuckhound Paul had been and that would really drive it all home.

Would she, Debi, be standing nearby, inside Heaven, looking on, amused? No. Because she was going to outlive Alma.

Ha.

No. Let’s say she was dead. She’d be like: I knew you in life, Alma. Do you remember me?

Gosh, Debi, hi, I do, Alma would say. And I am so sorry. I was always a super-snoot to you.

Yes, you were, she’d say. But I forgive you.

And Saint Whoever would look over, all impressed, like: Wow, even though she always treated you like crap, you are being totally cool to her right now.

But then again, you fucked my husband, Alma would say. Like, a gazillion times. According to that movie of my life I just now watched. Even when I was in the hospital having Pammy.