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“Right. That’s me. Fiona Kelleher.”
He grunts in reply. “I really am sorry. I don’t know if you have a place to stay—”
I wave a hand. “I’ll be okay.” Although I don’t know how. I planned on sleeping in my car, but it’s a pile of scrap metal now.
“There’s a motel not far from here. A few of the other families got rooms there if you want to head over. The owner’s giving us a discounted rate, nice guy.”
I nod at him. All I want is to be alone right now to revel in my misery. “I’ll check it out later.”
He clears his throat. “Listen, Fiona, uh—I’m sure you know this already, but that place, it’s a goner. There’s nothing left inside. Don’t stick around if you don’t have to. We’ll sort out the insurance crap and figure that all out. You had renter’s insurance, right?”
That’s when I start crying.
Straight up bawling my eyes out. I hunch down like he punched me in the guts and sob into my hands. My car’s gone, my apartment’s a burned mess. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and what’s left in my suitcase.
Insurance. That’s what finally breaks the dam.
“Oh, shit,” he says, coming over, hands fluttering like confused birds. “Oh, no, oh, no, okay, okay, it’ll be okay—”
“I’m fine,” I say, pushing away his awkward attempts at comforting me. “It’s fine. I just didn’t have renter’s insurance. I’m fine.” I grab my stuff and back away from my visibly distraught landlord. “I’ll be fine, I just need to walk it off.”
He looks like he wants to follow, but I hurry away before he can say anything.
Everything’s gone and it’s not coming back.
There won’t be an insurance payment.
There won’t be money to replace what I lost.
I’m just screwed.
I take out my phone and try my mom for the fifth time today. It rings, and rings, and rings. I want to scream at her. How can she disappear on me again, now of all times? I need her, need someone, and she’s supposed to be my parent. I know I’m a grown woman, I’m a freaking adult, but shit, my life is a mess. All I want someone to listen to me for once.
Finally, the line clicks to life. I expect to hear an answering machine robot, but instead, it’s actually her. Relief floods me. Finally, I start feeling like something’s going right. She sounds a little out of breath, but it’s her. Old feelings of comfort and safety try to push their way to the surface.
“Hi, honey!” she says, chipper as always. “Sorry I keep missing you. We’ve been so busy this weekend. Your dad and I went to this amazing retreat with a few other couples we’ve gotten friendly with, and we’ve just been swapping this whole time, really getting to know—”
“Mom,” I say sharply before she can start to describe what I can only imagine is some extremely gross sexual stuff. “My apartment burned down.”
There’s a long silence. Then: “Oh my god. Sweetie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I wasn’t here when it happened. But all my stuff’s gone. It’s all gone.”
“Did you have renter’s insurance? Maybe you can—”
“Mom,” I say, trying not to yell. Tears spring into my eyes again, but I force them away. Suddenly, all my anger and desperation pours out in a torrent, aimed at my mother. “I didn’t have renter’s insurance. I couldn’taffordrenter’s insurance. Remember how you and dad convinced me that there was no money to help with school, so I took out all those loans, but then it turned out the two of you sold off the investments you were saving for my college so you could buy a house in Florida? So you could move there and turn into weird sex freak swingers? And now I have like $110,000 in debt? And I had to take the first job that became available, all because I’m desperate to pay my bills? Do you remember that?”
She’s quiet for a long moment. I stand on the sidewalk, fuming, breathing hard. It smells like char, sweat, and car exhaust. If I’m not careful, I’m going to start crying again. I sit down heavily onto a bench beside a busy street and put my face in my hands, the phone still propped against my ear.
Mom’s voice softens. “I know you’re in a tough spot, honey, but please don’t blame me and your father.” She pauses for a long moment. “What can I do to help? Do you want a little money? I can’t send much, but I could Venmo like fifty bucks. How’s that sound?”
Fifty bucks. That’s the extent of my mother’s help.
Fifty-freaking-dollars.
“No, Mom,” I say as pure and utter defeat washes over me. “I don’t want any money. I just wanted you to listen, that’s all.”
Why did I think it was a good idea to call her? I knew she wouldn’t do anything for me. Even if I begged and screamed, the best she’d do is send fifty bucks over Venmo. Maybe she’d empathize a bit, but my mother has never given me more than passing sympathy.
