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“I live here,” I return wryly.
“You know what I mean. Did something happen? Are you feeling better?” She fires these questions at me as she hurries into the kitchen.
“I do. Yes, and maybe. That should answer all of your questions,” I return dryly, struggling to hide my smile.
She looks at me, clearly puzzled, but sits down across from me at one of the stools which line the other side of my massive marble island.
“Tell me. What’s going on,” she says, her eyes grave.
So, I do. I confess about my prank calls and watch her eyes grow wide and crinkle as she howls with laughter.
That is not the reaction I anticipated. But, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected from this woman, so I just continue.
Her laughter dies when I tell her about Kevin’s accusations and threats.
“I think he's making it up, Mom. I really do. I mean, I know I’m not doing those things so they can’t be happening. Right?” I look up at her expectantly.
I’m surprised to see that the look on her face is a mask of horror.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispers to herself.
“Mom?” I put the last pancake on the plate and rush around to her side. She looks like she might tip over, so I try to reassure her.
“Don’t worry. He can’t pin something on me that I haven’t done.”
She sighs and closes her eyes.
“But, you did do them, Millicent.” Her voice is still barely a whisper.
“What? No, I didn’t.” Aghast, I step back from her. What is she saying? “I wouldn’t forget doing things like that. I'm not crazy.”
“No, you are not. But Rabea is,” she says with a sigh as she stares at her hands, which are clasped and laying on the countertop.
Rabea is my mother’s best friend. She was widowed in her early forties. She and her late husband never had any children and she never remarried. She was a teacher, but has retired recently. She has filled her life with dance lessons, and cooking for a local homeless shelter. She and my mom met in the international food aisle of our local grocery store. They fought over the last jar of tahini paste. They ended up trading hummus recipes and phone numbers and have been best friends ever since. She's my mother’s only friend who knows the truth about my dad. They have a lot of fun together and I have been so grateful my mother has had her as a companion all these years. But, Rabea is mischievous and has a very strange sense of humor.
My stomach drops when I hear she has something to do with this.
“Okay, start talking,” I demand.
“Millicent, I’m sorry. I broke your confidence. I told Rabea about Kevin.” She doesn’t look up as she continues talking. I drop my forehead into my hand. This cannot be good.
“And she was as enraged as I was. And you know her. She said she was going to ‘haunt’ them.”
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.
“Milly, she never signed your name, she never let herself be seen. She was taking the weeds she pulled out from her yard and putting them on that idiot’s doorstep once a week. And then she would type these notes to Kevin.” She looks up at me then, gauging my reaction. I'm livid as I listen to this crazy story unfold.
“What do the notes say?” I demand.
“Oh, different things every time.” She glances down and clears her throat. “Mainly dick jokes she found online. She would type them up and put them on his windshield while his car was parked at work.”
I stare at her. Unable to believe what I'm hearing.
“Dick jokes?” I sputter.
“Yes. You know. Your dick’s so small you could screw a pasta strainer. Your dick’s so small you could get head from a crease in my lip. Your dick’s so ugly it looks like a pimple with a pulse.”
She's saying all of this with a straight face, in a matter of fact voice. I, on the other hand, could live the rest of my life and never recover from hearing my mother say the word “dick.”
