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“Yeah, this is Jillian. Who the hell’s asking?”
She doesn’t recognize my voice. How is it possible that her voice can stir up such visceral memories, and she doesn’t evenrecognizemine?
“Who. Is. This?” she repeats with irritation. “I got noodles in the microwave.”
It’s like time has stood still in the decade I’ve been away. I’m a little girl again, speechless and terrified. “This is…”
It seems like a simple thing to say your name. To identify yourself. Especially to your own mother.
“You slow or something?” Jillian barks.
“I’m Fay Donohue,” I say, the name falling easily from my lips. “I’m your daughter’s accountant.”
“Accountant?” she repeats as though that’s the only thing about that sentence that jumps out at her.
“Yes. For your daughter, Paige.” I feel the need to clarify. To say my name aloud to her, even if it’s buried inside of a lie.
There’s a long beat of silence. I think she might hang up. Then: “I ain’t seen that girl in years. She dead or something?” She doesn’t sound too broken up about the possibility.
My eyes fly open. “What?”
“Why is her fuckin’ accountant calling me?” The suspicion is back in her voice.
“She wanted to know how you and Garrett were doing.”
“And she couldn’t be bothered to call herself, huh?”
You couldn’t be bothered to recognize me.
“She wanted to inquire about you and your husband. Are you both… okay? Has there been a change of address?”
“No. Tell her we are just fuckin’ peachy where we are. Why would we leave?”
They’re still together. That fact alone has me reeling. But it makes me feel good, too, in a strange way. At least they have each other.
Misery loves company.
“Right. Your daughter wants to make sure that the two of you are okay. She wants me to transfer you some money on her behalf.”
There’s another tense pause. “This some sort of joke?”
“No, ma’am, it’s not.”
“She hasn’t talked to us all these years. Why now?”
That is an incredibly good question. Luckily, I don’t have to answer it. “You’d have to ask your daughter that question, Jillian. Are you willing to accept the funds? If so, I’ll need your account information for wiring purposes.”
She hesitates for a long time. “Yeah, okay. Hold the hell on.”
I hear her puttering through the trailer, clanging and banging against the small space. I wonder if it looks any different now. I wonder if it’s frozen in time, waiting for a visit from me, or if it’s swallowed up any trace that I was ever there.
She gets on the phone a full minute and a half later and reads me her account details in a detached voice. “There. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say. “Thank you. Do you… do you have anything you’d like me to pass along to her?”
My mom’s breath rattles on the line for a long time, fuzzy with static. I’m sure she’s going to grunt no. Then she sucks in a quick inhale and barks, “What’s she doing now, anyway? Still trying to make something of herself?”
“She’s… She’s trying,” I say at last. Then, as hot tears prick my eyes, I suddenly want this conversation to be over. Memories are coming at me like bats out of a cave, flapping their dark, ugly wings in my face, and if I stay on the phone for a moment longer, I’m going to scream. “Thank you for your time, Jillian. Say hello to Garrett for me—I mean, for Paige.”
