“Yeah,” I say, guilt lacing the word. “But I’m only going because—”
“Yes,” she interrupts. “I know, baby.”
Silence stretches between us. The weight of our new situation settles into our bodies. She’ll be here all alone now. Who knows where she’ll live.Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll support you, I think to myself as I observe her worried expression. My phone begins trilling, “Hopelessly devoted to youuuuu”—gosh, I really need to change my ringtone—and a photo of Faye’s perfect smile fills my screen.
“Faye’s calling,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I make my way to the guesthouse as I press the green circle to answer her call, pink journal in hand.
“Hey, Faye! How’s my married woman doing?” The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I take the path to my current bedroom.
“UGH!” she groan-yells into the speaker. “My mom is the absolute worst!”
“Woah there, feisty one. What is going on?”
“She’s just ridiculous. She finds a way to do this every time. Stephen’s family always hosts a huge party for his birthday in July, and suddenly my mom is demanding we come home theexact same weekend. She has way too much time on her hands with not working,” Faye says.
Her voice seems to be put on pause as I contemplate this. “The older you get, the more you realize you become mini-me of your parents. Good and bad. It won’t matter how much you fight it, con.” It was a sentiment Lottie always spoke about, and it never made sense at the time. I figured it was because I didn’t have memories of my father, so how would I know if I was becoming a mini me of my dad?
Faye complaining about her mother’s abundance of time from not working is starting to sound pretty similar to how her life has panned out.
“Like, you had zero interest in throwing me a birthday party, and suddenly because Stephen’s mom is notorious for her ‘amazing parties’ you want to throw one? He’s not even your son!” Faye’s voice cuts back through my thoughts. “It’s just ridiculous.”
“Yeah, that is so strange,” I say, trying to muster up the energy to empathize with her. The funeral was one week ago. I haven’t felt much empathy for anyone but myself lately.
“If it’s only three months of marriage and she’s already getting this weirdly territorial, she shouldn’t be surprised if we never move back home.” She scoffs. “She should consider herself lucky if we even come home for Christmas at this rate.”
She continues ranting as I punctuate here and there with an “oh my gosh,” or “you’re kidding” at the right moments, but when I look at the clock, I see that she’s been talking for over thirty minutes.
Usually I’d never notice. I always loved when Faye came back to the apartment with a hilarious story to tell or something to rant about, but today I just don’t have it in me. I was proud of myself for not caring at first, but as the minutes tickby, it starts to bother me more and more that this is the first time she’s called me since Lottie passed, and it’s to rant about her mother.
At least you still have her, I think cynically, and then immediately feel bad for having the thought. Everyone’s suffering is subjective. And yet, my body wilts the longer she speaks.
“Anyways, that was dumb. I just had to call you and get it off my chest,” Faye finishes.
“Haha. Yeah, no worries. That is so dumb. Sorry you have to deal with that,” I respond, meaning it.
“How are things with Declan?” she asks.
I feel stupid for the way my chest deflates. I was expecting the next question to be “How are you?” because of the obvious elephant in the room.
“Oh, fine…” I trail off, too distracted by the thoughts I can’t say in my head.
I’m not thinking about Declan much because Lottie just died. She died and I’m sitting in the house that was hers. I’m thinking about how much longer we have until my mom and I have to find somewhere to stay with the finances we don’t have.
But instead, I say, “Speaking of, I gotta go. I’m doing overtime hours at the coffee shop.”
“Ooo! I hope he’ll be there!” she coos.
As the silence rings out in the wake of our call, I picture myself floating out at sea, the tide taking me farther and farther from shore. I begin to struggle, but no one on land seems to notice. I can keep wading for a while, I think to myself, and kick my feet harder.
Five Years Ago
Declan picks me up at the house at seven p.m. just like he said he would.
I expected him to be waiting in his car as per usual, but when I throw open the front door, he’s standing stock-still beneath the soft glow of the porch light with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. He looks like a modern-day James Dean.
I actually mentally whistle.
