“Winona’s number. She’s been in touch with your father and told him not to tell me, but he did anyway.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“She has my number blocked, but your father says she’s fine. Well, as fine as she can be. She’s got a job, and she’s not homeless.”
I stare at her. Is this real? I spend so long with the conviction that Mum would never use Winona’s name again, and here she is with her number.
“Put the number in your phone,” Mum says. “Call her. You said yourself that she’d make you feel better.”
“You’re giving me her number?”
“Yes, Jude.”
“But…you hate her.”
Suddenly, Mum looks old, like she’s aged ten years in a single second. “I don’t hate her. She’s my daughter. I love her like I love you, and I know it’s hard for both of you to believe that, but it’s true.”
She stands up suddenly and walks over to my desk. “Here, I’ll write it down for you,” she says as she scrawls on a sticky note. Then she leaves, body stiff and angled away from me so I can’t see her face.
The phone rings and rings and rings. I cross my legs, huddling against the cool breeze. I decided to walk to a nearby park to call Winona. I’m not entirely sure why — perhaps partly to get some distance from Mum, but also, I’m sick of looking at the bed where I cried my eyes out last night.
The park is deserted, but the winter rain has left the lawn green and damp with dew. Eucalyptus trees sway in the wind.
The phone’s still ringing. I jiggle my leg.
Then: “Hello?” She sounds cautious. It’s her voice, though, similar to mine but higher and slightly more raspy.
I swallow. “Hi. It’s me.”
“Jude?”
“Yeah. Did you forget I exist?” I try to joke, but she doesn’t reply. I’ve stunned her into silence. “Uh, hello?”
“Oh my god. I —” Something crashes in the background.
“Have I called you at a bad time?” I ask.
“No, it’s fine. I was just doing the dishes. Hang on a sec.” There’s some muffled noise, and then Winona sighs, the way she did when she collapsed on the couch. “Um. So.”
“Yeah.” Now that I’m actually talking to her, my mind’s gone blank. Well, at least I’m not sobbing.
“How did you get my number?”
“Dad gave it to me.”
“Dad? You talk to him?”
No. Not at all. “Well, technically, he gave it to Mum, who gave it to me.”
“Mum had my number?” Winona asks. “And she didn’t call me?”
“Apparently, you blocked her.”
“Oh yeah.”
Silence stretches between us. The wind whistles, and I cross my arms for extra warmth. “How have you been?” I sound oddly formal like I’m talking to a stranger down the street.
“Good! I’m working at a clothing store full-time. Soon, I’m going to be promoted to manager. Oh yeah, I’ve also started my own business — manicures and lash extensions. It’s very small at the moment, but one of my friends is a beautician, so she’s been training me. What else? Oh, for Christmas last year, I went to Torquay. You should go, it’s really pretty. Weather was nice too. I actually want to go on another beach holiday, so when I get time off work, I’m thinking of going to Bali. What’s been happening with your life?”
