She turns to me, and I feel her fury hit me like a force field. I am flooded with a memory from my childhood. I was six, and she’d let me go to a friend’s house to swim for the afternoon in their pool. But when they dropped me off and I came in wrapped in a towel, my pigtails dripping like wet pasta over my ears, she lost it. She accused me of horrible things no child that age could understand—said I was “exposing myself” to the girl’s father, called me a whore. She forced me into a shower so hot my skin was red for the better part of an hour afterward. I cried myself to sleep, never understanding what I’d done wrong but cradling a belly full of shame. The next morning, she woke me up with a smile on her face as if nothing had happened. We ate breakfast at McDonald’s, and I rode the merry-go-round at the park with her until I threw up. That morning could have been a metaphor for my early life with my mother—a ride you can’t get off. At first it feels fun. It makes you light in the head and you squeal with laughter; but after a while, you just want the world to stand still for a change. You are sick with the blur of it all.

“It’s not your place at all,” I say louder this time. I am shaking with rage. I am not that six-year-old girl anymore. I will not allow her to screw with my head.

“What do you know of it? You just got here,” she snaps.

“I know you can’t possibly make enough money turning cards to afford a place like this,” I tell her, liking how the truth feels as it spills out of me. “I know that you are here by Gary’s good graces and nothing more.”

“Cat, please,” Gary cuts in, but my mother turns around, pretending not to hear me.

“I know that you’re lucky a man like him wants anything to do with you. I can’t imagine the hell you’ve put him through, especially if this is any indication.” I spit the words at her back like poison darts. Only yesterday, this woman was glowing with her victory of winning me back, begging me to give her a chance, stuffing me with beignets, and regaling me with the highlights of life in New Orleans. And now, here she is, accusing me of being inappropriate with a man nearly old enough to be my grandfather. Someone she brought into our lives, not me. The worst part is, I don’t even have a room to go to or a door to slam.

Gary sits down and puts his head in his hands. He won’t say it, but it’s clear he doesn’t exactly appreciate my defending him.