Page 5 of Wreckage of My Life
I let go of her arm and push her off me like she’s got the leper.
“What the fuck are you talking about? What son?”
“Mia, the girl who called here,” Ma starts explaining. “She said she has your son.”
“I don’t have a son,” I snarl at her like she’s slow. “In case you can’t remember.”
There’s finally fire behind her normally dull eyes when she squares her shoulders and prepares to rip me a new one. She’s finally acting like she is alive and not just my father’s rag doll.
“Well, apparently, you do,Dylan,” she enunciates my name, and I almost want to crack a smile. “He is three and a half, and he lives in Illinois.”
“Ah, well, that’s a problem right there,Arlene,” I get into her face again when I call her by her name instead of Ma like I normally do. “I haven’t been to Illinois in at least five years, maybe more. That’s hard math to prove wrong,” I snicker and signal for another shot of tequila.
“She said that she moved to Illinois from here. Four years ago,” my mother’s voice sounds firm, compelling me to listen to what she has to say in spite of myself and the alcohol currently running through my veins. “She was a club whore.”
“Ah,” I nod in understanding. “You should’ve led with that one then.”
The disappointment I see on her face at hearing my words sobers me up a little, and it also shames me a little more. This is no joking matter what she just told me. How the fuck did this happen? And who in the fuck is Mia to begin with? And how does she know he is mine if she was a club whore?
I turn my back away from Ma and stare at the wall, focusing on one small dot until everything else goes blurry.
I may have a son.
3
Wrecker
After my fourthor so cup of coffee, plus a gallon of water down my throat, I am finally sober enough to call this Mia chick. I still don’t know who she is or what she looks like. Absolutely nothing comes to mind when I say her name. I don’t even know her last name.
I squint at the piece of paper my mother shoved in the front pocket of my jeans earlier, right before storming off. With not so steady hands, I dial the number scribbled on there, then wait.
After three long rings, I finally hear a breathy voice, murmuring, “Hello” into the speaker. Yep, she’s definitely a club whore. They all seem to sound the same.
“Who’s this?” I bark into the phone, and I hear her clearing her throat, like she’s about to go for a round of bullshit.
“This is Mia. Who’s this?”
I ignore her question and just go for what I need to know. “Mia what?”
“Mia Smith.”
Her name means nothing at all. My brain is working overtime, trying to recall ever fucking anyone by that name.
“Any other names you go by?”
“Sugar,” she sounds even breathier than before, and that’s when it hits me. Son of a bitch. I threw this whore out of the club four years ago because I caught her stealing from us. Now she’s telling me that she took off with my baby in her belly?
“What do you want?”
“I was pregnant when I left, didn’t realize until I got here. We have a son. He’ll be four in a few months,” she continues the charade. And the way she sayswe, like we’re a couple, is making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Where ishere?” I pretend not knowing, even though Ma already told me she was in Illinois.
“I’m in Illinois,” she confirms.
“Where in Illinois?” I growl at her. This is like pulling teeth. I have zero patience for her bullshit.
“North. Lake County,” is all she says.
