Page 18 of Goodbye Again
I’m not ready for the dream to be over, but my feet are like lead fused to the deck boards, and I can’t follow her inside.
four
MY MIND SPINS AS Iwake up in my hotel bed... alone. I’ve never dreamed so vividly before, and yet, I wake still feeling the touch of her hand and the smell of her perfume.
When my phone rings, I’m certain I’ll see JP’s name float across the screen, but then I realize we didn’t even exchange numbers. Seeing my mother’s name in blinding white letters is quite the buzz kill.
“Hello?”
“You’re alive!” she says in that weird way moms do.
“Yep. I got in last night.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“You should have at least texted to let me know.”
I suppress a sigh. “Sorry.” I settle with not wanting to pick a fight. I yawn as I make my way through the hotel room to the coffee maker.
“A lot could have gone wrong—you could have gone missing and I wouldn’t have even known to report it,” she scolds.
“I’m an adult, Mom. You don’t need to worry so much.” My tone edges around melodic.
“I am your mother. It is my job to worry.” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice, but it stems from her need to control the situation. My tone stems from attempting to neutralize the situation before it even combusts. We’re at about eighty percent no contact. I don’t have the strength to cut her out completely and have actively chosen to keep the peace for my sister. So we only see each other for holidays and the occasional party. Whenwe talk on the phone, I mentally set a timer for ten minutes. She hates it, but it’s necessary.
“Can we not?” I beg.
“Fine,” she huffs over the line.
“Is there anything you need me to do for the party?”
“Oh my word, you wouldn’t believe how stressful this all is becoming.” She cackles. “I could probably put it in a book!”
“Your life is very interesting,” I say, tone flattening. My eyes drift from the window to the coffee maker as the gurgle indicates it’s almost done brewing.
“Well, first of all, Austin’s mother is just... the worst. She insists on bringing her special sugar cookies—some old recipe—and I’ve told her Emily doesn’t like sugar cookies, but she keeps saying Austin likes them and it’s a tradition.”
My brow creases while I pour myself a cup of coffee. “I don’t think sugar cookies warrant getting stressed out.”
“Yeah, well, then she asked—no begged—to have her friends come—”
“Aren’t your friends coming?” I interrupt.
“Well, it’s my house and my daughter.”
I tilt my head. “It’s her son and her grandbaby, too.”
A pause and then, “Well, anyway, she didn’t even offer to pay for the extra guests.”
“How many extra guests?”
“Four!”
“Oh, God, Mom, I’ll pay for the extra guests. Don’t be ridiculous.”
She clicks her tongue over the line, and it sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “Oh, right. Because you’re a fancy therapist now.”
I ignore the blow to my gut. It isn’t the first time she’s made fun of my career. For my mother, I would have been more successful remaining in publishing and settling down with heragent, whom I dated for three years. She wanted to keep me at arms-length as one of her accolades. Now she treats me like I’ve gone rogue instead of congratulating me on creating a life of my own.
She’s quite accomplished. Best-selling author, so damn smart, and her foreign and film rights are sold before her books are even published. Unfortunately, she walks around knowing this slice of her biography means she sits on a throne and the rest of us are her peasants. It’s beautiful to know your worth. It’s hideous to step on everyone else while you sit on your throne.
