Repeat.
Finally, on the seventh try, someone answered.
"Senator Collins’s phone." Chad's voice held that particular brand of annoyed professionalism unique to overworked assistants.
"It’s Anna, I need to speak with her." I kept my voice light, controlled, even as my free hand fisted in the quilt.
"The senator is quite busy, but if you let me know what this is regarding, I'm sure I can schedule an appointment. It looks like she might have some available time for a fifteen-minute call two weeks from now."
Two weeks.
The necklace was suddenly heavier, tighter.
"I am not making an appointment to speak to my own mother. Put her on the phone." I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the tension coil up my neck, settle into my shoulders like a physical weight.
"I know that she's your mother, but you have to understand she's swamped."
"Give her the phone," I repeated.
"I can give her a message, but she's in the middle of a meeting with some very important?—"
"Okay, let's try this a different way," I said, adopting a fake sugary-sweet tone, making sure each of my words dripped with condescension.
"If you do not put her on the phone right now, I am going to call theNew York Timesand tell them about how I disagree with my mother's stance on gun control and her paydays from special interests. Then I will tell any reporter I can find abouthow I support members and candidates opposing her positions and will start an Only Fans account to raise money for them."
The line went silent for a moment.
"Give me a minute, let me see if I can get her," he finally said.
"Thank you," I said in the same sugary-sweet tone. I hated pulling that card. I felt like a spoiled bitch, but there was no other way for me to get in contact with her.
I hated how I had to threaten my way into having access to my mother.
It took another fifteen minutes before she picked up the phone.
Fifteen minutes that crawled by.
I counted them on the microwave clock. My leg resumed its bouncing. I stood, paced to the window, back to the couch, then to the kitchen where I filled a glass of water I didn't drink.
Finally, the line connected.
"Eleanor," she scolded when she got on the phone, making me feel like I was still five years old and reaching for a second cookie. "How dare you interrupt my day. I was in a critical meeting, you know that?—"
"How dare I? How dare I?" I couldn't believe her audacity. "There is a bomb strapped around my throat because of you. You pissed off the wrong people, and now they're going to kill me because of you, and you couldn't even be bothered to pick up the phone and check on me?"
Hot tears of frustration and anger spilled down my cheeks as I yelled around the lump forming in my throat. They tracked through what remained of yesterday's makeup, leaving dark streaks I could feel but couldn't see.
"Oh, stop being so dramatic. You're just like your father. All emotion and no common sense. You're fine."
"I am not fine, Mother," I shrieked. "I was abducted from my job by a Russian mob boss, and now he has a bomb around my throat."
"Calm down," she sighed, and I could hear her roll her eyes through the phone at me. "He won't kill you, not while he needs me. You're the only leverage he has. Stop making this all about you."
"I'm not leverage, I'm your daughter."
"And right now you're a distraction. I raised you better than this. The situation is handled. Don't do anything, you're just going to make it worse. Do not call the police and do not call me again. I will call and let you know when it's taken care of."
Then the line disconnected.
