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There’s a beat of silence.
“Are you all right? You sound like you have a cold.”
“No, I’m just?—”
“Have you tried gargling with salt water?”
“I don’t have a cold, Mom. It’s two a.m. I don’t want to wake?—”
I stop talking, but it’s already too late, and of course she’s caught on to the slip.
“I thought you lived alone.”
“I do,” I say quickly.
“So who would you wake up?”
“Nobody.”
“Then why are you whispering?” she whispers theatrically.
“I have neighbors,” I say.
“Good lord. How thin are the walls of your apartment?”
I don’t say anything to that, and neither does she. Eventually she laughs.
“All right. I can take the hint.” There’s a beat of silence before she asks, “How are you, honey?”
I glance at the wall, and a smile pops up automatically when I think about the man waiting for me on the other side of it.
“Good,” I say belatedly.
“How’s school?”
“Going well.”
It continues in the same generic question-generic answer manner for a little while.
I have a strange relationship with my mother. She’s the only family I have left, and I do love her. But that love is also really complicated, riddled with mistakes and past hurts and memories of better days. It’s the tense kind of love that’s half-voluntary, half-obligatory.
Sometimes I can’t help but think I love her because I’m supposed to love her.
“Lake!”
I snap out of my thoughts at her admonishing tone.
“Sorry.” I rub my palm over my face. “Sorry, I…”
“Are you all right? You’re very monosyllabic today.” She lets out a trill of laughter.
“Well, it’s really late.”
“What are you—” She stops. “Oh, hell. I forgot all about the time difference. Well, this will certainly take some time to get used to.”
I blink and try to figure this out. Might be I’m just half asleep and am hearing things wrong.
“The time difference to Vermont?” I ask.
