“I’m going to blow your mind, Ms. Blunt,” I say into my moonlit bedroom.
Chapter 10: Corrine
A documentary about the Second World War is the only interesting thing to watch as I lie on my side, foam-rolling my IT band. My skin is sticky from sweat and I still feel out of breath from my run.
My mother’s laughter peals through my apartment, her ringtone drowning out Tom Hanks’s voice on the television. I reach blindly behind me, searching for my cell phone on the coffee table. Grabbing it with two fingers, I hit the speaker button right before it goes to voicemail.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, a little breathless.
“Hello, my little pot roast.”
I laugh. She hasn’t called me that inyears. Probably since I was in middle school and complaining about the social politics of band or the actual politics of mock UN.
“What’s up?” I ask, as I switch to my other side to roll out my opposite leg.
She pauses. “Not much. Just wanted to hear your voice.” Hers shakes.
I pause. “Is everything—”
“How’s work?” she asks over me.
“Fine,” I say slowly. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. This is it, I realize. This is the call.
“How is your intern?”
I’m so caught off guard, I stop, my mouth half open. I don’t want to talk about him. But Mom can read the pause for what it’s worth. One of the best things about this woman is she knows when you need to be pushed and when you need time. This time she pushes.
“Everything going okay with him?”
I sigh. Mom now knows about the elevator. At the mention of the C-word, she made a twittering sound and got very flustered.
I hum to avoid the real answer: that I think I made an assumption about him and treated him poorly for the last few weeks because of it. That no matter what I throw at Mr. Chambers, he does it without question. He certainly scowls about it. But he hasn’t once complained, to me or about me, to anyone.
“What’s up, Mom?” I ask, turning the subject back to her. I don’t even want to say the word biopsy, so I go with, “Is everything okay?”
Another pause. “Let me get Daddy.”
She calls for my stepdad, her voice muffled, and a few seconds later, he picks up the extension.
“Hey there, princess.”
I’ve never loved the nickname. But it was my stepdad’s version of affection when I was growing up.
“Hi, Dad.”
There’s silence again. I sit up slowly, turning the television down and moving the foam roller to the side. I stand and start pacing. “What’s going on, you guys?”
Dad clears his throat. “Lindy?”
I imagine my stepdad in his office.
My mom in the kitchen.
They still have landlines, with curled phone cords. She’s looping it through her fingers right now.
“Well, I had the biopsy,” she says slowly.
I walk toward my office. My face is a furnace, my head floats above my shoulders, not quite attached to my body. “Okay.”
