Page 10 of You'll Love it Here

One of those novelty giant plastic cups with the long swirly straws suddenly pops into frame. My mom takes a giant swig of what looks like a margarita. “I know they cheat us, but they don’t have to be so rude on top.”

My mom isn’t exactly great with people she thinks are trying to cheat her. Last time I was over for dinner, she got a telemarketer scam call with an automated voice that said her credit card was compromised. She let it go through to one of the call center guys and told him that her brother was going to fuck his mom (my mom’s version of a comeback, for some reason). The guy on the other end began thoroughly cussing her out. This all happened on speakerphone, and once she hung up, she continued eating her dinner completely casually, nary a look in my or my Aunt Safa’s direction.

But the real problem is, whenever my mom gets into these kinds of scuffles, she ends up saying something along the lines of “You can’t talk to me like that, my daughter is averyimportant manager.” Then proceeds to try to get me involved.

I take a deep breath. “You didn’t use the ‘my daughter is a manager’ threat?”

The wide-eyed flash of her eyes is my answer.

“Mom!”

Her voice (miraculously) lowers to respond, “Just a little bit, but I didn’t give out your name yet.”

“Yet?! Mom, you have to stop with this. Last time, my assistant had to field a call from the car wash. It was a mess.”

Hurt creeps in behind her eyes. “You shouldwantto help me, after everything.” Her eyes cast down for added sympathy. “I’m your mom. When I’m dead, you’ll see.” This is her evergreen comeback, but it has become less of a casual threat after Dad’s funeral.

And that’s just it.

My mom was never super reasonable, but since my dad passed, it’s like she’s become addicted to chaos. I mostly checked out of my relationship with my dad eight years ago. In all that time, I only communicated with him in the most basic surface-level ways, just to keep family gatherings peaceful for my mom’s sake.

But the last time he got drunk was five years ago, when Mom called me to help pick him up from the police station. I guess he came home too drunk for his front door keys to work. He apparently thought Mom had changed the locks, so he sliced through the screen of an open window and crawled inside before passing out on the living-room couch. Only problem was, it was the next-door neighbor’s house. Anyway, Jim and Pauline didn’t take too kindly to this, and the cops were called at one a.m.

It happened the night before my first solo pitch for a micro soda company. I only ended up getting three hours of sleep and uploaded the wrong campaign. Twice.

After his death, something unruly was unleashed inside my mom. Something I’m not sure I can handle.

“I do want to help, of course I do,” I say. “But actually, I should talk to you about my job...” I try to lock eyes with her without success. The frostiness of her eyeshadow feels almost reckless with how sunny it is today.

“What was that, Mona?” she crows, the screen tilting as she lifts her drink again. The casino manager’s torso comes into view briefly—he’s still standing behind her.

“Things have been kind of weird at work lately, with everything that’s happened.” I force each word out with the hope that she’ll hear them. “Since Dad and all.”

Instantly, her eyes drift away from the phone screen. It’s like her mind is traveling a million miles away.

All the pain and angst of the past twenty-two hours hits me at once. I don’t know what I expected. She’s still too caught up in her grief, and if I tell her I’m having trouble at work, that’ll only add to it. And she’ll probably end up doing something a lot wilder than arguing with casino managers. Besides, it’s not like she can help me—it’s never been that way.

“Hey, Mom, I’ll try and come by for a visit soon,” I say, forcing a smile on my face. “Just please, stop arguing with the man for doing his job. You know what it’s like.”

Her gaze turns down again. My dad worked in construction, mostly as a roofer, but he took on anything he could get. Even still, relying on his income when he couldn’t always retain a job was volatile. So Mom ended up spending decades waxing and threading eyebrows in her basement salon. I think some customers knew how much she needed them. Every now and then, someone used that desperation to say and do horrific shit.

“I’m not beingthatrude,” she replies. “I know the limit.”

Now she’s working part-time at a small salon in a strip mall in Killarney. At this stage of her life, she should be having some well-deserved peace. But Dad died, and his debts didn’t. So yeah... it’s not me she needs to worry about. “Just try not to play the machines anymore. They’re designed to keep you losing money—you could get addicted and it could...” The words fall between us before I even realize what I’m saying. We both drift to different thoughts about the same man. “Just don’t play them anymore, okay? You have to pay for utilities soon, don’t forget.” This month, with my leave pay, I actually can’t lend her extra money if she ends up needing it.

She nods, and the tense energy my comment brought carries through the phone. “Okay, it lost its luck anyway. I will never touch these filthy machines again.” She’s far too loud again. In the background I see the casino worker keep a straight face as his one visible eyeball drifts to side-eye her. “I’m going to see about putting a curse on him.”

“Sounds like a solid plan.”

Her eyes twist curiously. “Why aren’t you at work?”

I want to sigh. She finally notices something about me, but it’s too late. “Oh, I just had a late night.”

“With a man?”

“Not this time.”

Her eyebrow raises. “What happened to that one with the beady eyes?”