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CHAPTERONE
BISHOP
“Hello? Mother? Are you still there?”
“What? Oh, yes, I’m just putting on my Chapstick while I’m stopped at a red light,” she rattles off seconds before a horn honks in the background. “I’m going; I’m going,” Mom mutters. The engine in her ancient Toyota Corolla coughs and whines but eventually shifts into gear. “Sheesh, some people. So rude,” she laments.
I pull the phone away from my ear so she doesn’t hear me sigh. Dear ol’ Martha Castillo is many things, but self-aware isn’t one of them. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I summon a deep well of strength used solely for dealing with my mother.
“...And so out of the twelve scratch lotto tickets I bought, two of them were winners! Can you believe that? Fifty bucks each. How’s that for good luck?”
“Congrats,” I say flatly. I don’t bother telling her she’s probably spent at least twenty times that much on her lotto tickets over the years. I’ve learned my lesson about trying to give my mother advice.
“Why aren’t you more excited for me?” she whines. Jesus, I feel a migraine headed my way with all the force of a runaway train.
“Where is the money now?” I ask instead of answering her landmine of a question.
There’s a brief pause, a moment of hesitation while she figures out which lie to spin for me. I’ve played this game with her for decades now, so I’m not surprised to find out there’s more to the story. There always is with Martha.
“Well, here’s the thing,” she begins.
I stand from my desk and pace over to the floor-to-ceiling windows in my corner office. Looking out over the expanse of New York City, I wonder, not for the first time, why I still answer her calls. My mother didn’t seem to care much about me growing up, but once I got my act together and figured out what I wanted in life, she came sniffing around, hoping for a handout.
I’d like to say I laughed in her face and sent her on her way, but… she’s my mother. Not that she’s done much to earn that title recently. Still, she’s managed to worm her way back into my life time and time again.
“I was on a lucky streak,” my mother continues, drawing my attention back to the conversation.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I already know where this shit show is going to end up.
“So I played the slots at the casino across town. Now, before you give me your lecture on gambling, I’ll have you know I won an additional ten dollars,” she boasts.
“Yeah, and then what happened?” I mutter under my breath. I’m not sure if she heard me, but at this point, I don’t give a fuck. We’re nearing ten minutes of this phone call, which is about all I can handle.
“I kept going, of course. I was on a streak!” she repeats. “But I must have miscalculated. I was sure I had one more big payout coming my way. I mean, there’s no way I won the scratch tickets and ten dollars on the same day if the universe didn’t want me to have more, right?”
Again, answering would only prolong this already insufferable conversation, so I let it go.
“In any case, I lost all my winnings in one fell swoop. And I may have dipped into rent money a bit to try and get some of it back.” Her rushed confession is met with silence. I saw it coming, but it’s still crushing every time my mother asks for money.
I’ve long since given up any pretense of real love or affection when it comes to this woman. She’s made it clear that she’s only interested in what she can get out of people, her own son included. Even more so now that I’ve topped all the stupid wealthiest bachelor charts put out by magazines and newspapers.
“How much?” I clip out, ready to end this conversation and get back to work.
“You know I hate to ask, but–”
“How much?” I repeat.
She pauses for a beat, and I can almost hear her calculating whether it’s worth it to yell at me for being rude. In the end, she wisely decides not to bite the hand that feeds. Literally.
“A thousand.”
I roll my eyes at her reckless spending, though I’m not in the least bit surprised. A thousand dollars is nothing to me. I’ve probably made that much just in the time I’ve been talking to her on the phone. That’s not the point.
“I’ll have my secretary wire it to your account this afternoon,” I tell her, hating myself more with each word. What choice do I have? I’ve offered to buy her a house on the coast of California multiple times, but she always tells me she’s not looking for a handout. My mother does this, knowing full well I pay her rent half the damn time.
Again, it’s not about the money. It’s her. She’s this insufferable, chaotic whirlwind of a shit show who seems to destroy everything she touches.
“Thank you, Bishop. You know you’re my heart, right? I’m so proud of you for all you’ve accomplished, even if it means you don’t have much time for your mother. We all make sacrifices, you know.”
