“Hi, momma.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” She hesitates for a moment. “You sound sad, what’s wrong?”
“Just tired, that’s all.” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and saunter to the coffee pot. Pulling the carafe from the base, I turn to the tap to fill it up as an exaggerated yawn escapes me. “Just a long night.”
“How was the show?”
The show. So much has happened since we sawLes Misérables, I almost forgot we went.
“Oh, it was good. Really good.”
Her silence on the other end reminds me that moms have a sixth sense, and she can see right through my lies.
“Meggy, don’t lie to your momma. What happened?”
I give her the quick rundown of the fight, leaving out the exact details of how many times Jim punched Marcus in the face, following with how I told him to go, and ending with the tequila at Lainey’s place.
“It’s about time someone taught that jerk a lesson. I never did like him. You always sounded so sad when you were with him.”
“Anyways.” I pour the water from the carafe into the machine, adding my standard scoop of coffee grounds, and deciding to add a touch more to get me through this day. “I called him thismorning to talk, but he didn’t answer.” The selfish part of me wishes he would be the one to reach out to me first.
“He’ll call back. Or you could go over there to talk, you know. Relationships work both ways.”
Except we aren’t even in a relationship. It feels like I've broken up with someone who never had an official title. “How’s Jackson? When do you want me to come get him?”
“Oh, that’s what I was calling about. Do you remember my friend Donna from church? The one that has grandkids close to Jackson's age?”
“Yup.”
“She is having a picnic luncheon at her house, I thought I’d keep Jackson for a little longer and take him over there.”
“I’m sure he’d love that.” That’ll give me time to drink a pot of coffee and rage clean my house. Maybe by the end of that, Jim will have called.
“Your dad was going to grill steaks for dinner tonight. How about you make up with that boyfriend of yours and you two come over for dinner so we can thank him properly.”
The smell of fresh coffee radiates through the kitchen, and I move to the cabinet to pick out my favorite mug. It was one Marissa painted for my birthday when she was ten years old. We went to one of those pick and paint shops and she blew everyone away with what she could do with a set of cheap brushes and a five dollar ceramic mug. That’s how we knew she was really going to be something.
“What do you mean, thank him properly?” I lift the carafe from its holder, slowly pouring hot coffee to the brim.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
I set the carafe back on its warmer, opening the fridge to grab my creamer. “Tell me what?”
“After your dad fell down the stairs at Marissa’s celebration, Jim—”
“Dad what?” My hand, that had been reaching to grab my creamer from its place on the shelf, freezes mid-reach. “Dad fell? Here?”
“Oh, didn’t we mention it?”
I drop both elbows to the counter, letting my head fall into my hands in frustration. “No, Mom, no one told me that dad fell.”
“Well, he didn’t fall, exactly. His knee gave out but Jim was there and caught him. You know how bum his knee is.”
A sudden burning fills my throat, the tequila threatening to make a reappearance. I just lost my sister, I can’t stomach the idea of something happening to one of my parents. The thought of having to move my dad into a facility when my mom can’t care for him is just enough to send me into a spiral.
“A few days later, Jim called to follow up. He asked more questions about the issues your dad has with walking, and how his knee gives out. Then last week, Jim showed up with two of his brothers and a fancy construction truck. And honey, they built the nicest handicap ramp to cover the front steps of the house.”
My head perks up at her words, nose stinging in the process. “They what?”
