Harrison pulls his walkie-talkie out of the holster. “Hey, Rosy. What's up? Over.”
“Who is this? Over.”
“You know who it is. What's up? Over.”
“Just say it,” Libby suggests as the radio crackles. “She's not going to move on with the conversation otherwise, and you know it.”
Harrison sighs. “Honey Bear here. What's up, Big Momma? Over.”
“The crew from housekeeping and I are on our way back. We should be there in about fifteen minutes. Over.”
“Great work, everybody. Hey, Big Momma, there's someone here who wants to speak to you. Say hello to Baby Bear. Over.” Harrison snickers as he hands me the walkie-talkie.
I glare at him and yank it out of his hand.
“Baby Bear? Is that you? Over.”
“It sure is. I made it home!” There's a long pause until I say, “Over.”
“And Baby Bear, did you finish your degree this time? Over.”
“Yes, Big Momma,” I say reluctantly. “Over.”
Loud squealing sounds come from the walkie-talkie, and when Rosy's ready to speak, she's sobbing audibly and saying something about Big Momma being so proud of her Baby Bear. As cringeworthy as this is, it's good to be home again.
Now, if only I can magically be clean, put together, and prepared to impress some snooty old wanker in the next hour and…shit…twenty-minutes…
4
The World’s Nastiest Bunny…
Pierce - 1000 km Northeast of the Benavente Islands
Ahh…that’s better. After nearly eight hours in the air, I finally have managed to loosen the grip that the permanent knot has had on my gut for months. Special thanks to the makers of Bombay Sapphire gin and Bob Ross for this blissful state. I sigh contentedly as Bob puts the finishing touches on another happy landscape. He really is the most soothing person to grace the telly, no? Even that perm is delightfully fun.
And before you say, ‘But, Pierce, shouldn’t you be writing?’ you should know I do, in fact, have a plan. I’m going to use these nine hours to fully unwind and let go of the real world so that upon arrival at Eden, I can fully immerse myself in my work. Yes, this is it. I can almost feel the creative juices flowing like a spring brook.
Christ. ‘Bunny Davenport’ is flashing across my mobile screen. My mother's calling again. (And, yes, I have her down by her real name rather than World’s Best Mum or some other cutesy way people list their parents in their contacts. In my case, reminding myself of the limits of our relationship is imperative.) I roll my eyes as my phone vibrates on the plush cream-coloured leather seat next to mine.
Damn. Since I intend to shut off my mobile for two months, I suppose I should answer, even just to tell her I’m disappearing for a while.
“Hello Mother, what seems to be the trouble?” I ask, then take a sip of my drink.
“Why, Pierce, I'm insulted that you think I only call when something is wrong.” Her shrill voice blasts out of my mobile. “Is that what you think of your mother?”
“Name one time in the fourteen years since I left home that you have called just to say hi.”
“So, I’m not one for idle chitchat. Is it really necessary to throw that in my face? You and your brothers act like I have no right to my own life, but honestly, after everything I sacrificed to bring you into the world and raise you properly, is it so much to ask that I have a littleme time?”
Other than her time spent in labour, my mother’s entire life could be classified as ‘me time.’
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Of course not. As I've told you before, take all the ‘me time’ you need.” After all, our relationship tends to be much smoother when she’s completely self-absorbed. “Mother, I can’t talk long. I’m working at the moment, so if you could quickly fill me in on the latest scandal your youngest son has caused, I will give you my customary sympathetic answer, offer no solutions, and get back to the task at hand.”
“What’s that noise in the background? Where are you?”
“Somewhere over the North Atlantic.”
“Going where?” she asks, suddenly sounding panicked.
