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I press accept while peering at the oncoming traffic.
“Ryker,” I say absently.
“Interestingly enough, I do know your name, seeing that I picked it out myself.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Mother,” I say.
“Right again. You are on fire today.”
“That’s being on fire in your book? You have low expectations for me.”
“High expectations are for sons who actually return their mothers’ calls. I’ve heard your voicemail so many times in the last few weeks it’s like an intrusive thought already. It comes to me at random points in the day, and then I start to wonder if you’re even alive anymore. It’s terribly inconvenient.”
“Dramatic,” I say. “Do you?—”
“This is Ryker. Go,” she quotes. “I mean, really. It’s not even a good message. It needs to be much longer, so if you do die, I’ll at least have something I can listen to and have a good cry over. It’s basic decency from a son, really.”
“That took a turn.”
She just laughs. “How are you doing, darling?”
“I was doing fine. But then my mother called me and started discussing my imminent death.”
“She sounds like a fascinating woman,” she says sweetly. “How’s school?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Try again.”
“Care less,” I counter.
“I’ve been toying with the idea, but then I remember you’re my only son, and I deserve some form of compensation for those forty-nine hours of labor I endured with you. Have I told you that story recently?”
“So school is going well,” I say quickly. “I’m on track with set theory again, so that’s good. I’ve been going swimming on Sundays, so you can now breathe easy. I have a life outside of hockey.” I hesitate for a moment, but then… I have to bring it up somehow and get the ball rolling on telling her. “And I’ve been hanging out with Lake again.”
She’s quiet for a long minute.
“Lake,” she then says, and there’s almost a nostalgic edge to her voice all of a sudden. She lets out a deep breath. “How is he?”
She sounds uncertain in a way that is not like my mother at all. Genevive James is one of those people who’s in possession of boundless confidence, so it’s not often something—or someone—manages to unsettle her.
“He’s doing well,” I say. “He’s premed, so he studies a lot. He’s got one more year left here.”
“That’s good,” she says in a measured tone. “He always was a smart kid.”
I nod while I pull into a parking spot in front of my building. I turn the engine off and pull the key out, but instead of going inside, I lean back in my seat.
“Did you ever try to talk about him with John?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a long time.
“Sometimes…” She sighs, then starts again. “Sometimes it’s so easy to take the easy road.”
“That’s not really an answer. What does that even mean?”
“It means… It means he was not my son, and I didn’t know what to do in that situation. I suppose that was the main problem. So in the end, I chose not to do anything at all. I’m not saying it was right. I’m not defending myself or the choices I made. I’m just saying that’s what happened.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
