Page 16 of Late Bloomer
But I can’t do any of those things, the last one for apparent legal reasons, which makes me even more upset.
Opal sucks in a breath, getting ready to say something else, but I can’t take any more information. Bolting up, I take a few paces away from the porch then spin around.
“I have to call Trish.”
“You know Trish?” Opal asks, a bright smile pulling across her lips.
“Unfortunately,” I grumble. “Can you give me her number?”
My mother cycles through at least a dozen phone numbers a year, and it’s been a long time since I’ve initiated contact with the woman.
Opal hesitates for a moment, and I fix her with a sharp look, daring her to say no. With a sigh, she pulls out her phone and scrolls.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on. I feel like I’m an intruder or something,” Opal says, holding out her cell.
“You are,” I reply, pounding the number into my own phone. Marching away with what little dignity I have left, I turn down a nearby row of narcissus flowers.
I pace among the plants for a few moments, trying to get my breathing under control.
Okay, deep breath. In and out. Find Zen or whatever.
Doesn’t help.
I try again, tilting my head up to the inky night sky.
Then three more times.
It’s useless. No amount of deep breathing can dislodge the block of concrete clogging my chest.
I stop pacing and plop down to sit on the cool ground, branches and leaves enveloping my curved back like a safety net. A hug.
I hold my phone in one hand, the tiny bundle of chamomile in the other. I gently drag the pad of my thumb across the delicate white petals, young and soft and comforting. I do this so often—any time I feel nervous or overwhelmed or oversensitized, which is almost all the time—that the sweet and gentle smell of flowers is forever embedded in my skin.
After pushing a frizzy lock of hair out of my eyes, I call the number.
It rings. And rings. And rings some more. I should be used to my mom not being reachable when I need her. This isn’t anything new. This isn’t anything new, poking at an old wound between my ribs.
“Hello?” a cheery voice answers, making my skin prickle and shoulders hunch up to my ears.
“Hello, Trish,” I say, hoping using her first name will sound cool and unattached instead of moronically immature. “It’s me.”
There’s a pause. “Sorry, sugar,” Trish responds, voice still disgustingly sweet. “Me who?”
“Your daughter.” There’s a heavy beat of silence. “Pepper.”
The line is silent. I hope Trish feels shame. Fear. Regret. Discomfort.
But, adding to the list of endless disappointments, the woman has the audacity to let out a tinkling laugh of glee. “Well, bless my heart. Yours was the last voice I expected to hear when I answered this call. How are you, sweetie? Where ya living these days?”
“Right where you left me,” I respond through clenched teeth.
Another long pause. “The Thistle and Bloom?”
I let out a loud scoff in response. The last time I saw my mom was nine years ago, when I was a terrified seventeen-year-old who had been forced to grow up way too fast and dropped on Grandma Lou’s doorstep.
Don’t worry, Pep. I’ll be back in two days. Three, tops, Trish had told me, as she left me with a woman I’d never met.You have a nice long weekend with Grandma Lou, and by the time I come back, I’ll have us a brand-new apartment to live in. Just ours. And you can finish out senior year in the same spot. Then college. Everything’s gonna be better. I promise.
I had sat stone-still on that porch for hours, eyes wide as I stared at Trish’s tire marks, my entire body numb, like all my senses, my very soul, had curled up into a tiny ball in the corner of my stomach and left the rest of my cells empty to fend for themselves. I don’t have a fight-or-flight response. I always freeze, and the fear of this unknown place with the unknown person made me feel like I’d never move again.
