Sheriff Barclay tumbled from his vehicle and scarcely spared a moment to adjust his pants before barreling through the door. He didn’t seem to notice Slick on his heels. She was sneaky like that.
The midday sun pierced the gloomy interior, blinding patrons and backlighting the officer as he scanned the minimal crowd. The moment he laid eyes on me, he pointed. “Devereaux, I swear to god.”
I held up my phone, an unspoken promise that I was calling my mother right away.
It wasn’t good enough. Even as I hit connect on her number, the sheriff barked, “I shouldn’t have to drive over here every goddamn time she needs you.”
“Then don’t. No one’s making you.”
Except my mother was not one to be ignored. Not everyone had my stamina, and when Stella Devereaux decided she required police intervention because her son was ignoring her texts, it was easier to perform a courtesy call to Salty’s than suffer her wrath.
No one could figure out why she didn’t call the bar directly. I had few haunts in town, but the Salty Orange was my main squeeze—pun intended—but for whatever reason, Bobby’s phone never rang. I suspected he’d contacted the phone company and had her number blocked years ago.
My mother answered on the first ring, breathless, like she’d been racing from one corner of the county to the other trying to find me.
“Ozrik, is that you?”
Oil Slick landed on the table again, earning a wrathful glare from Bobby.
“Mother, you have caller ID. You know it’s me.”
I pointed at Slick, and Vern took care of the cat.
“Oh, sweetie. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours. You know how worried I get. I thought you’d died in a ditch. Are you feeling okay? Does your head hurt?”
Yes, I thought.
“No, Mom. My head’s fine.” I locked gazes with Sheriff Barclay.
Seemingly satisfied, he spun on his heels and stormed out, nearly colliding with Vern, who was returning inside after depositing Oil Slick in the parking lot again. A moment later, gravel pelted the window as the sheriff peeled out of the lot, enunciating his fury with a heavy foot on the gas.
“Are you fevered?”
“No. Never felt better.” Twenty-four years living with a mother whom I, in my amateur Google research, had diagnosed as having Munchausen syndrome by proxy had taught me that whatever I claimed didn’t matter.Shewas the ultimate authority on how I felt, not the other way around.
We spoke for fifteen minutes under the humiliating stares of my best friend, who treated my suffering like it was manufactured for his enjoyment. I answered all her nagging questions, about my temperature, my morning bowel movement, my urine, my fiber intake, and more. Only when I agreed to come home right away so she couldlook at me, only when I promised to drink a minimum of seventy ounces of water before supper, and only when I assured her that I would provide a pee sample in the morning for her to take to the lab did she relent and let me off the phone.
Vern’s beer was gone, my Coke was empty, and Bobby didn’t seem interested in serving us any longer.
Suddenly exhausted, I shoved my empty glass to the edge of the table. “I gotta go.”
“Not yet. I have news. It’s why I hunted you down.”
“Unless you’ve won the lottery and plan to share the windfall so I can move to another planet, it will have to wait. Stella needs to look at me and touch my forehead and prod my liver.”
I moved to stand, but Vern’s next words stopped me in my tracks. “Not a windfall, but your dreams are about to come true.”
The onlydreamsI had were about leaving home. Running far, far away and never looking back. Vern knew this.
“What does that mean?”
“Sit. Give me ten minutes.” Vern glanced at the surly bartender and raised his voice. “Another round, Bobby. Your windows are fine, the cat’s outside, and your customers are thirsty. Stop ignoring us.”
“I don’t have time for another drink,” I said. “You know she’s at home staring at the clock right now and counting minutes.”
“Yes, but she won’t call Barclay again until you’re at least twenty minutes late.”
“I hope you’re right.”
