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The sound of her voice makes me feel about eight years old.
“Hello?” she rasps.
“Beryl?” I know it’s her, but I can’t think of anything else to say.
“Who’s this?”
Your daughter.
“Uh… hey. Olivia here.”
“Olivia, honey! Well, I’ll be darned.” She coughs, then, a deep, rattling cough that makes me think she might be holding a cigarette. “What a surprise. It’s been long enough. Did Maggie put you up to this? She’s something else… a real nice girl. I just love chatting with her.”
Anger rises up in me, hot as lava.
Sheloveschatting with Maggie? What aboutme? She must not love chatting with me, because she hasn’t bothered to call me in three years. I didn’t call her, either, so there’s that. But it still hurts to hear her gush about Maggie.
I clear my throat. “Hey, I’m pretty busy here, but I wanted to run something by you.”
Maybe if I get this out quickly, I can hang up before I start to cry.
Being on the phone with her, and hearing her voice, is bringing everything up.
I remember holidays, birthdays, my sixth-grade science fair. All those times she promised to show up and didn’t make it. She was always too busy. Too broke. Too wrapped up in her own addictions and struggles and dramas to bother to pay attention to me.
“This must be about the big wedding I hear is in the works,” she says. “Maggie’s told me all about it. Sounds like it’s going to be something else. A real party.”
“Right. And—um… have you thought about coming to town for it?”
“Well, sure, I thought about it. If anyone bothered to send me an invitation, I’d have a trip all lined up. But I didn’t get invited. I know I didn’t always do right by you and Trent, and he doesn’t want me there.”
“What if I… uh—” I gulp.Ow. The lump in my throat aches. “What if I… invited you?”
Across the street, a woman my age steps out of a craft store with a bag hooked over one elbow. Her ponytail swings side to side as she walks off, a bounce in her step.
I wish I could trade places with her.
Then I’d be strolling along with a bag full of craft supplies, thinking about a scarf pattern or something, instead of navigating a stressful conversation with my mostly absent, incredibly distant mother.
On her end of the line, I hear a lighter catch. There’s a long pause, and I can picture her sucking in nicotine. Then she exhales in a big woosh that travels through the phone, right into my ear.
“Is that what you called for?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’m inviting you.”
“Does your brother know?”
“Not yet, but he will. I’ll tell him.”
“What’s he going to think?”
WhatisTrent going to think about this? I don’t know for sure. I do know that he’s nuts about Maggie, and the last thing he wants is to lose her. She won’t walk down the aisle with him unless Beryl is there. I’m fixing that.
“I can’t read his mind,” I tell my mother. “But I do know that he wants their big day to be great, and that can only happen if you’re there.”
“Me? Well, Olivia, that’s nice to hear. Iamyour mother, after all. I wasn’t going to put up a big stink about this, but it really was a slap in the face, not getting invited to my own son’s wedding. I’ll see if I can scrape together the funds.”
I’ve heardthatbefore.
