The numbers keep climbing while I come apart underneath them. Paige shows me a chart I pretend to follow. Bex fields another call from the station across the country that wants to carry us. The better I get at falling apart on the air, the more stations line up to buy it.
It’s no different when it comes to writing music. The more melodramatic, the better the sales. People thrive on your pain and your angst. People are sadistic, and yet I keep feeding the beast.
Bex catches me before I’ve got my jacket on. She hasn’t been in Beaumont long and doesn’t know the half of who calls theshow or why, but she’s been in the booth with me enough weeks to know when I’m not feeling it.
“You’ve been somewhere else all week,” she says. “Two shows now. I don’t need to know where, but I need you back before the mic’s hot, because the audience hears. They need to know the man on the other end of the line is going to give them his best.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “It’s just been a long week.”
“Sure.” She eyes me warningly but doesn’t push it. “Whatever it is, leave it at the door before the next one. That’s the job.” She goes back to her board. I could tell her she’s wrong or that she can’t tell me what to do because I’m the star—this ismystudio,mysoon to be satellite station—and I can end it anytime I want.
I keep my mouth shut. Bex is my business partner and she has every right to call me out on my bullshit. She doesn’t know it’s one of the callers, the older man. She doesn’t know it’s my father on the other end. If she did and if she knew the story, Bex would block him. All I have to do is say the word. She screens a hundred voices a week, and to her Sterling is one more that she’s heard before. That’s the only mercy in any of this.
I don’t go straight home. I drive out to the lake. The road empties the farther I get, the streetlights thinning until it’s just my headlights and the black water off to the left. By the time I turn, in I’ve half talked myself out of coming but continue anyway.
My mother’s place sits back off the water, where it’s quiet. The porch light’s on and so is the lamp in the living room. I hesitate until she opens the front door, leaving me no choice except to go in.
The radio’s off when I come in, which is how I know she heard the show. I stand in her small living room, looking at the walls. Every square inch is covered with photos of my kids and grandkids. She loves them and they love her.
She’s in her robe with her hair down and her reading glasses pushed up on her head. For some odd reason, she looks smaller here. Not so full of life. Maybe living at the lake isn’t for her.
“Tea?”
“Yes, please.” I keep looking at her walls, knowing full well I don’t spend enough time out here. “Do you like living out here?”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat. “Would you like to live in town?”
“I don’t need you to buy me a house, Liam.”
“We have Linda’s old place out back.” Linda was our housekeeper, years ago. When she retired, we didn’t replace her. “It has a private drive and entrance, and you’d be closer to the kids.”
“Maybe,” she says as she brings me a cup. I’m not a huge fan of tea and would prefer something stronger, but I’m not about to ask her if she has anything to make this Irish.
My mom sits down at her small table and takes a sip. I sit across from her and don’t sip. I just hold the hot mug in my hands.
“He’s getting bolder.”
“You heard it,” I say.
“I heard it. He’s more desperate. With him those were always the same thing.”
“You don’t have to listen to him. You could turn it off. Nobody would blame you.”
“And miss my son? I’ve heard every show since you started. I’m not letting that man cost me more than he already has. He’s taken enough of me from you. I won’t allow him to dictate how I spend my nights.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I drink it, even though I don’t like it. To hear my mother say she’d rather listen to her ex-husband’s voice than turn me off means a lot. Means more than I could probably tell her.
“I thought about going back to California for the winter, but I’m thinking about the offer you gave me this evening. I would like to be closer to the babies, and I don’t want to miss any milestones.”
“The house is yours. Just say the word. I will need a little notice though so I can get someone in there and make sure it’s clean and whatnot.”
My mom smiles. “I know your wife; it’s clean.”
I don’t disagree with her. I finish my tea, make sure her windows are locked, and tell her I’ll see her later.
On the porch, she holds my face in both hands a second, looking into my eyes. Years ago, we lost any affection we used to share. I refuse to move and lean into her touch. “I said my piece the first time and I meant it,” she says. “I’m not going to tell you to call him and I’m not going to tell you not to. But don’t lie awake over a man who never once lost sleep over you. He’s the one who owes. Not the other way around.”
