“Hello?” I didn’t get a chance to check the screen, but I know it’s my Mom because before she even greets me, there’s a heavy exhale. Smokers always smoke, even when they’re making a phone call.
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” she gripes, not greeting me at all. I pull my phone from my ear and analyze the screen. Indeed, there is a singular missed call from her just two minutes ago.
“My phone is on silent. I had a job interview.” I pull open the fridge and grab a bowl of grapes, taking it to my bedroom with me. I set it on the bed and sit next to it, waiting to be done with this conversation so I can eat. Mom does not like listening to people eat if she doesn’t have to. Says it's uncouth.
“You’re sure you can’t go back to the Brutes?” she clicks her tongue in sad disapproval, which is quite possibly her favorite expression. “Such a shame. Those people were so lovely.”
“You didn’t even know them, Mom,” I argue, trying hard not to raise my voice. Not because she doesn’t deserve getting yelled at–becauseshe does–just… not for this. In her defense, she doesn’t really realize what she’s saying. I never told her what happened with the Brutes.
“You always spoke so highly of Reynold,” she adds as if I don’t fucking remember those first few years of absolutely adoring the team manager, hanging on every word he said like he was Jesus Christ himself. My stomach churns, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m walking the bowl of grapes back to the fridge. I swap it for a bottle of water as I listen to my Mom prattle on. “Maybe you could go back? Tell them you needed time. A little mental health sabbatical.”
While a mental health sabbatical is a very PR way of categorizing where I’ve been the last six months, I don’t let her know it. My anger and my hunger fuse, giving birth to a powerful rage inside of me, and biting my tongue is something I just can’t do.
“They treated meawfully, Mom. I should never have been fired. And you keep acting like I wasn’t fired. But I was. They fired me and threatened me not to sue. So whatever fantasy you have about telling your Nordstrom shopping buddies that your daughter works for an MLB team, get a new fantasy.Right now. Because it’s never going to happen.Ever.”
I’m almost shaking when the last word of my mini rant leaves my mouth. I really never talk to my Mom in that tone or with that much clarity. With her, the less she knows is usually the better. But I’m so sick of being told what I’m doing wrong that I almost can’t even breathe.
“Why are you so cross with me, Goldie? You were happy with the Brutes, the happiest you’d ever been,” my Mom says with a medium patronizing tone. She’s the queen of patronizing so medium isn’t bad for her. And again, she has no reason to know that Iwasn’thappy. When the stress of what happened started to swallow me whole and weight started dropping off, my Mom showered me with praise and rewards.
I didn’t need to lose weight either. Even with my head being muddled and my body image issues being strong, IknowI don’t need to lose weight. And really never have. But the sick part of my head–the part raised by a woman who thinks olives from her martini is an adequate snack–felt loved from her praise. Felt special and important, even. And it doesn’t matter how old you are. You always want to be the apple of someone’s eye.
My other line beeps and I don’t care if it’s a spam call telling me my vehicle’s manufacturer warranty has lapsed or some other bullshit. All I know is right now, I’ll trade this bullshit for another kind, easily.
“Mom, I gotta go. I’m getting a call.”
She harrumphs like she does every time I want to end a call. Why, though, I’m not sure. It’s not like this conversation was good for either of us. “Fine, fine. I’ll call you tomorrow. I’d love to have lunch soon.”
Love and lunch aren’t two words she drops in a sentence often but then again, if lunch is liquid, shewouldlove it. I say another bye before clicking over.
“Hey, how was the interview?” Beck asks.
“Good. I really think it was good,” I say, trying hard to muster some of the positive energy I felt on the drive home.
“Good,” she replies quickly, “I knew it would be. You’re so charismatic.”
There’s silence between us for a second. “My Mom just called.”
“Oh,” Beck says with cheerful relief. “From your tone, I thought you were going to try to get out of dinner but now I know why you sound weird. Your Mom.”
“Yuup.” I flop down on my tiny loveseat and rest my heels on the equally small table. “So, what’s up? Just askin’ about the interview?”
“That and I wanted to see if you would grab a bottle of wine on your way over later. But if you’re home now and you feel like hanging out, you can come early. I’m not doing anything. Beau took Jett to work with him to teach him about being a mechanic and—”
I can’t help but snort, even though I’m suddenly ooey-gooey on the inside. Because how fucking cute is that? “Jett’s a baby, can he even say the word motor?” I tease playfully.
She sighs that dreamy sigh that content women do when they’re having regular sex and incredible orgasms. “I’m just happy to have a little break. He’s been so clingy lately, all he wants to do is nurse.”
I clear my throat. “Beau or Jett?” I deadpan.
“Jett,” she says quickly, sounding both shy and embarrassed even though I was only teasing. “Anyway, wanna come over? We can do each other's toes and drink the wine you bring.”
The tiny loveseat seems to swallow up the aches of my back. A painful burn clenches my gut. I am so tired right now and as much as girl time sounds good, I think I need a nap. “That sounds amazing B but I’m gonna set my alarm and crash for an hour or two. I’m beat.”
“Two hours?!” Beck chokes. “The most productive length for a nap is twenty minutes. It’s scientifically proven.”
Yawning, I say, “fuck science. See you at six.”
Beck laughs. “See you at six.”