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She squeaked and pulled away, laughing.
I watched her get up and head to the bathroom to clean up—though she didn’t have much to clean up because we managed to get a condom on before we’d gotten too hot and heavy.
Then she closed the door, leaving me to my phone call.
Since I was used to getting odd calls for the circus and what not, I answered it without thinking.
It was a Florida area code.
“Mr. Singh?” the woman said.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that there was no one here by that name. But I didn’t.
And regretted it instantly.
“Day,” I corrected her.
“Day?” she asked in confusion.
“I don’t go by Singh anymore,” I grumbled. “What do you need?”
“This is Ruth Cordeir with Elder Health and Services.”
My brows rose. “Okay.”
“I am the senior…” She started giving me her titles as well as any and all details pertaining to her job. Then finished with, “And I’m the head of your mother’s case.”
My mother’s case?
“What?” I asked.
“Your mother. Desiree Carobold. We are calling to inform you that you are being charged with elder neglect,” she announced.
Anger ignited in my blood.
“Elder neglect?” I asked the social worker, unsure whether or not I was hearing her correctly or not. “I haven’t spoken to my mother in well over twenty years. I have absolutely nothing to do with her.”
“She’s still your mother,” the woman over the phone replied.
“She isn’t anything to me,” I said. “My ‘mother’ left me with a pedophile who literally beat the shit out of me every three days. She is not my mother.”
There was silence over the line then, “She likely didn’t understand that she was leaving you with that fate.”
I laughed. The laugh was harsh and humorless.
“My mother knew exactly what she was doing,” I corrected her. “She was sure to come by every six months or so and ask for money from my dad. My dad gave it to her, then told me that I wouldn’t get paid for any of the hard manual labor I did weekly every time she came around asking for a handout. Because he ‘gave it to her to keep her happy.’ So yes, my mother knew exactly what happened every time she showed up, stealing from me. She also saw me in various shades of fucked up. So, when you say that you’re charging me with elder abuse, I’d like you to know that I haven’t seen, spoken, or wanted to speak to her in twenty fucking years. She has been dead to me since the last time I told her to leave and not come back. If you’re curious, I also have an updated restraining order against her. I get it redone every year when it runs out, because she likes to stalk me when I don’t give her what she wants.”
There was an even longer pause and then, “My suggestion to you, then, would be to come in and plead your case directly in front of the judge. We’ve been trying to get ahold of you for months, and it’s finally made it to court. I thought I’d try one final time to get in touch with you. So, if you’re at all interested in not being charged with this, you’ll get down here tomorrow for the hearing that’s on Friday.”
My hands fisted at my side.
“Where and when?” I asked. “And isn’t it usually normal for some sort of official summons to come my way before I’m charged? I think that’s how it goes with the actual law, right?”
She must’ve heard the facetiousness in my voice because I could tell she was getting angry.
“Mr. Singh…”
“Don’t call me by that man’s name,” I said. “I’m no longer Mr. Singh.”
