‘The honeymoon phase doesn’t last for ever, Am,’ Linda told her.
The fairy-tale part may be over, she added, but that didn’t mean the relationship was. She went on to use a strange and somewhat muddled metaphor of resuscitation and drowning.
‘She’s a dark one,’ my mother said one time, adding with a laugh that’s what she liked about her. ‘It’s edge that makes a person interesting.’
I mulled over Linda’s advice, reasoned it might be a good thing that Matty and my mother were less lovey-dovey. A sign they were comfortable being themselves. That they were entering a deeper, more meaningful stage. I was reading a lot of Judy Blume back then. Just Seventeen too.
My mother cupped her hand over the receiver.
‘Matty’s suggesting lunch. You up for that?’
‘Pizza Hut?’
‘Sure.’
I responded with a thumbs-up.
At the restaurant Matty polished off a Super Supreme with extra beef, pepperoni and ham followed by an ice cream sundae.
‘You’re going to explode,’ I said in admiration. ‘You been running a marathon or something?’
‘Sophie!’
‘What?’
‘It’s not for you to—’
Matty ignored her, tilted his head at me.
‘Meanwhile, you’ve eaten nothing, sweetheart. What’s up?’
My mother answered for me, an annoying habit made all the more so by the fact she had conniptions any time I interrupted her.
‘She’s stressing about the murders.’
‘That true, pumpkin?’
‘The victims look like Mum. What if—’
I broke off, unable to finish the sentence. Last thing I wanted was to start crying at the table.
They exchanged a private look.
‘And you’re worried that—’
‘He might hurt her.’
Matty shook his head, smiled kindly.
‘These women get into risky situations, Soph. Walking about on their own at night. That’s what puts them in danger, not the way they look.’
‘You’re blaming them? The guy’s a nut job. A total psycho, they said on TV.’
‘That’s enough,’ my mother exclaimed, as if I’d used a swear word.
I looked at her.
‘What’s wrong with “psycho”?’