Page 10 of The Time It Takes
Oliver reached forward and swiped the crust off my plate like he always did.
Just to get Phoebe to back off I told her, “I’ll think about it. Can we drop it now?”
The corners of her mouth lifted like she had won.
Chapter Two
Present
"Sweetie!”mymotherchimesloudly. I close my eyes and curse myself for answering before checking the caller ID. “Where in the heavens are you?” she asks. She never calls me sweetie, which means she’s either drunk or she has bad news.
It took her two years after Ben’s death to pick up the phone and return one of my thousands of missed calls. I’ve asked her to come and watch me play piano, but the excuse is always the same—she’s always somewhere far.
If I wish to see her, I have to go to her. I’ve taken a few drives to see her over the years. She’ll show me pictures of her and Frank and tell me about their adventures. I’ll smile and laugh because that’s what she does. I sometimes wonder if she’s snapped yet or if somewhere deep down, she’s hoarding all the memories she’s missed, all the guilt she should feel for not being there when her children needed her most. I can’t count all the times I cried for her, and she wasn’t there. I stopped counting on her to show up a long time ago.
She left us alone, but not once did I understand the meaning of loneliness until my brother’s absence. There’s a gap in my life now. A never-ending ache of what should still be.
I have a feeling my mother’s way of grieving throughout these years has been a sham. Sometimes it feels as if everything’s the same for her and the weight of missing him is feather-light. Deep down I hope she’s just as miserable as I am.
“A friend of mine is showcasing his art tonight. I thought I mentioned that when we talked last. Remember Julian?”
“Oh!” Her tone is far too insinuating. “He is such a handsome young man. It only takes a senseless fool not to ride that train, honey.Pleasetell me you have some sense, Willow," she remarks. When I first mentioned Julian, my mother googled him. Now she thinks she knows everything about him. She only knows that I’ve been seeing him for some time now, but no matter how many times I tell her it’s not serious, she chooses not to believe it.
I can’t help the humorless laugh that breaks free, cracking in my throat. “I’ll let you know when I get some,” I tell her.
She’s quiet for a while, and I get an awful twist in my gut at not knowing how to keep a conversation with her. I clear my throat. “So which state has the pleasure of seeing you this month?” I decide to ask.
My mother was born with a travel bug. For as long as I can remember—that being age eleven, she’s been on the road. It never made me think she didn’t love me; in fact, I know she has always loved me very much in her own way. I only wish I would have felt it more in person rather than through a screen.
At least she has Frank. He’s generally a quiet person, so I don’t know him all that well. If he makes her happy, nothing else matters to me. It makes my anger at her ease a fraction knowing that she’s taken care of.
“Iowa,” she sighs, and I instinctively wrinkle my nose. “You know Frank loves to explore the caves.”
No, I don’t know, is what I want to say.
I don’t know Frank at all like that. I only met him a few times in my youth. He’s a large black man with the heart of a golden retriever. The only thing I know about him is that he loves my mother. Instead, I say nothing, but she continues, bringing her voice down to a whisper as if not wanting to be heard, “Last weekend he took me on a hike and I had some lady business I needed to take care of and I must have squatted over some poison oak because, sweetheart, my behind is—”
I grimace. “Jesus, Mom. Did you go see a doctor?” I ask, sounding more amused than concerned.
She takes in a deep breath as if exasperated by my question. “No, no. I just had Frank rub some ointment there and sent him on his way to explore the caves on his own. If I’m being completely honest, I’m a little more relieved than pissed at mother nature.”
“Ha, yeah. The world works in mysterious ways. Don’t want to go cave exploring? Here, have some poison oak in the most unpleasant of places instead,” I retort sarcastically.
I hear a door close and then the sound of crickets chirping. She must have stepped outside. “Yes, well that’s life—we all trade one hell for another.”
I know her words aren’t meant to hit me like a truck, but they do. Suddenly everything feels heavy again and I know my mother decently enough to know that she doesn’t just call out of nowhere to say hello. I know whatever she has to say, I’m not going to like it.
Reluctantly, I ask, “Is there something you need? I need to get back before I miss Julian’s speech.”
She’s silent for a moment, and I shift on my feet feeling anxious and a bit impatient.
“I’m selling the house,” she says easily, but quickly. It unnerves me how calmly she states something that has the power to end my current state of peace. Words capable of causing my legs to sway beneath me.
I tell myself that my heart stops beating, but that’s impossible because I hear it in my ears. It’s the only thing I can hear at all. The echo inside my body is the only thing that reminds me that this is happening. It isn’t a nightmare. No, it’s my life. I have a sense that my mother is still talking, but I can’t make out the words. Everything in this new life I’ve created is being pulled out from under my feet.
It’s filling me with an odd feeling. I haven’t been inside that house in ten years, but still, I never thought it would someday stop being mine. I liked knowing it was there. I liked the idea of growing ballsy enough to visit it someday. It’s clear thatsomedayjust got a lot closer.
“You can’t sell the house,” I choke out, cutting off whatever she was in the middle of saying. My voice is laced with anger and urgency. It’s hardly her house to sell. It isn’t something she should have decided without asking me first.
