Page 60 of Gone Tonight
My mother has a tiny piece of popcorn stuck to her chin. Normally I’d reach out and brush it off, but I don’t want to touch her. I can barely stand to have her leg resting next to mine.
“Tin hired a new physical therapist,” I lie. “He’s about my age.”
My mother raises an eyebrow. “Cute?”
“Yeah. Tin asked me to give him a tour, then we talked for a while. His name’s Christopher.”
I can’t believe my mother doesn’t sense the turbulent emotions that seem to be rolling off me in waves. Or maybe she does—she’s a better actress than I am.
“I’ve always liked that name,” she tells me, playing right into my hands. I couldn’t have scripted a better response for her.
“Me too. He said his parents are religious, so all their kids are named after saints. He got St. Christopher, who was the patron saint of animals, which is pretty funny because he’s allergic to dogs and cats.”
My mother gives a little laugh, but it dies off when I don’t join in.
“You feeling okay?” she asks. “You don’t look that great all of a sudden.”
Saint Francis of Assisi is the patron saint of animals. Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travel.
Three strikes. Wouldn’t anyone raised in the Catholic Church know the identities of two of the most famous saints?
I cannot believe that of the few scanty facts she has told me about herself, at least one is a fabrication. Her parents weren’t devout Catholics. So why did they throw her out when she got pregnant with me?
“Catherine? You okay?” she repeats.
I’m spared from having to answer when my iPhone rings. I reach for it and caller ID shows it’s the cable provider for my new apartment in Baltimore, the company I’ve been trying to reach to cancel the service I’d arranged to begin next week.
The company made it easy to sign up for one of their viewing packages. Canceling has proved to be much harder. I was on hold for nearly thirty minutes earlier before I gave up and pressed the button on my phone to receive a callback.
My mother turns her attention to her own phone while I begin talking to the world’s worst customer service representative. The line is a little staticky and he can’t understand my name, so I have to repeat it twice, then spell it.
He tries to sell me an upgraded package, but I insist I need to cancel.
All the while, I can’t help thinking about the stories I’d created about my mother in my mind. She didn’t get confirmed at age thirteen, like I’d imagined. She never wore a little gold cross necklace. I wonder if she’s ever set foot in a Catholic church in her life.
Does she even have Alzheimer’s disease, or is that her biggest lie yet?
I want to shake her and demand to know the truth. I want to slap that popcorn kernel off her face.
The service guy wraps up his pitch. “So what do you think? It’s just an additional four ninety-nine per month.”
“No! I want to cancel my damn service agreement!”
My mother’s head jerks up as I shout the words.
“Ohhhh, okay. Hang on one second and let me transfer you to our—”
“No!” I yell again, but it’s too late. Canned music plays in my ears.
My phone flies across the room and smashes against the wall. I hear the crunch of breaking glass. Then I see my mother’s face and I realize when I threw my phone, I barely missed her head.
Her arms are half-raised to protect herself, and her eyes are huge.
“Catherine! What the—”
“What, you’re the only one who’s allowed to get mad? At leastIdidn’t hityou.”
I leave the rest of my sentence unsaid, but I can tell my mother knows what I’m thinking:Like you used to hit me.
