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My stomach lurches forward into the future without me. “What?”
“I don’t know,” she says, answering none of my questions. “But it’s bad. I have a feeling it’s really, really bad. I caught her sneaking out of the house. Not only that—she’s been lying to me—I think she’s seeing someone. Someone she knows I won’t like.”
“How do you know?”
Her eyes narrow. “Call it mother’s intuition.”
“I—”
“Anyway,” she says, cutting me off. “I need you to keep an eye on her while I’m away.”
“Of course.”
“I have to know I can trust you. This is the most important thing I’ve ever asked anyone.”
“Of course you can trust me.” She looks me up and down like she’s trying to determine whether I’m telling the truth. “Where are you going?”
“Another author canceled on Good Morning America. My publisher thinks it’s a good idea to send me in her place.”
She crosses my living room and takes a seat on my sofa. She places her head in her hands. “This time of year is very popular for self improvement. They’ve decided to send me on a seven-city tour following the show. They want me in several targeted territories. Basically, where the action is.”
“That’s great!” This is the worst thing that’s ever happened.
“It’s not great. In fact, it’s the last thing I need.”
“I see.”
“You don’t see, Sadie.” She crosses her legs. “This is the worst possible time. My kids need me here. Paul needs me here.”
I don’t know what to say to her. Sometimes there is nothing to say.
“I know things have been shaky between us. And I’m sorry for my part in that. But I wouldn't ask if it weren’t important. I need you to promise to keep an eye on things, Amelia in particular. She’s at such an impossible age. Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise.”
She bites her lip. “You’ll call or text me for anything?” she asks. I’ve never heard this much desperation in her voice.
“Of course.”
She exhales swiftly. I can see a weight is lifted in the way she almost smiles. “Oh, Sadie. You can’t know how much this means to me. I love you. I really love you.”
I say, “I know.” And then, because I know it matters, I ask. “What are you going to do? About Amelia?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just have to trust that it will take care of itself.”
IT’S lonely and quiet without Ann around. I watch her on Good Morning America. Sometimes we touch our own wounds to be punished. I know because the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen reads: “She’s like your best friend, but better. The toughest asset you’ll ever have. Meet Ann Banks: America’s newest guru.” Her stint goes so well there are other shows after that. Everywhere, she says, they are trying to book her. Her trip gets extended.
We keep up mostly through text. Although, even those are different. Her messages are short and clipped. I wake up angry and go to bed that way too. I don’t like sharing her with all those people, and all they print are lies.
Paul has to go out of town on business. Ann warned me this might happen. She says this is for the best, but I know it’s not, because the kids are basically raising themselves. The truth is, I’m pissed at her for choosing work over her marriage, over her children, over me.
To make matters worse, the hotline is busy. It never stops. Ann says I am doing a good job. She says you can only do what you can do. She says everything works out in the end.
But I know that’s wrong, because the vet called again this morning. The grocery store kitten is beyond ready to go to the shelter. I’ve been avoiding their calls for days and days—maybe even weeks now. I figure they’re still charging me to keep her, so, so what? Anyway, the latest voicemail was adamant. They can’t keep her there. Fueled by rage and a touch of loneliness, I don’t even have to pop an anti-anxiety pill to make the trip. I literally, aside from fielding endless calls from desperate and hopeless people, have nothing better to do.
Thankfully, this visit to the vet proves itself to be more pleasant than the last. Everyone is so nice. So nice. They were even kind enough to add a pet carrier to my bill. After I sign the bill authorizing the transaction for thousands of dollars, the technician brings her out. He says, “I’m sorry about before. When I treated you poorly.”
Just kidding. In my imagination, that’s what he says. In reality, he tells me, “We’ve been calling her Little Annie.”
