by Mary
She leaves and while I’m sticking the casserole in the fridge, my cell starts ringing.
Damn, I’m popular today. But I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi. I’m looking for Bethany Connell?” The woman’s voice is crisp and professional.
“This is she.”
“This is Samantha calling from NV Energy account services.”
“Um. Okay.”
“The automatic deduction for your address at 1013 Sky Avenue was rejected. Would you like to make a payment with another card and add a new payment account to your records?”
Mom’s house. Is that why she kept calling me? “That can’t be possible. I had enough money in that account yesterday to cover it.”
“You might need to contact your bank. In the meantime, can you provide us with another card to avoid late charges?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
It takes a few minutes to get my purse and pull out a credit card to give them.
My mind is racing the whole time. I know I had enough in there to last the rest of the month and part of next. What happened?
As soon as I hang up with the utility company, I call the bank and move into the living room so I have more room to pace.
The rep sounds like a co-ed from Southern California. Every sentence ends on a high note like it’s a question, with the word “like” peppered throughout. It’s a sharp contrast to her words.
“So, like, a large sum was withdrawn late last night?”
Money was taken? From my account? She goes on about how there’s, “like, less than a dollar left in your checking and savings and there will be, like, a service charge for maintaining a low balance long-term.”
“But . . .” I find my voice. “I haven’t taken out any large withdrawals. Where was it taken out?”
“You have, like, a second card holder?”
Oh shit. Mom.
She’s listed on the account for emergencies. I had a second debit card, but I lost it in the move.
Or I left it behind.
And then she found it.
I groan, frustration filling my veins with fire. Voice shaking, I have the rep remove Mom’s name and cancel the card. Not that it matters. The damage has been done.
I want to cry. Sob. Shake my fist at the universe that gave me a mother who can’t handle being an adult.
Instead, I hang up with the bank and call the source of all my problems.
“Hey, baby,” she answers, happy and tipsy.
It makes my blood boil over.
I hope she remembers this. “Mom. Why did you take all my money? No, don’t answer, I know why you did it.”
She must hear the anger in my voice. There’s a slight hesitation, and then the defensiveness starts. “I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my money, too.”
My teeth grit around my words. “Here’s the thing. It’s really not. I removed your name from the account and the card is canceled. I’m calling everyone now and removing my accounts from your utilities, and I’m not paying your property taxes or buying you food anymore. You’re on your own.”
Silence down the line for about three long seconds.
“You can’t do that! I am your mother! I gave birth to you. I raised you.”
And here’s the guilt trip. But I’ve heard it all before. Too many times. “Yeah, well, I’ve been going through the pain of reverse childbirth to you for the last ten years and I’m done.”
“How am I supposed to live?”
“I don’t know, Mother. You can use the retirement check you get every month.”
“It’s not enough to live on.”
“It would be if you stopped spending it on booze.”
She’s quiet and then the wrenching sobs begin. “I can’t believe you’re cutting me off like this. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You’re going to drive me to drink even more.”
Blaming her drinking on everyone but herself. I used to feel bad for her, but I think I’ve run out of the emotion. “I’m not ashamed. I’m not forcing you to do anything. But I am sorry, Mom. Sorry I let you leech off me for so long. Sorry Dad died and you felt you had to escape everything, including me. Sorry you’ve let your addiction ruin our relationship. But I’m not sorry for this. I should have done it a long time ago. When you get sober, you can call me. Otherwise, don’t bother.”
I hang up and burst into tears.
Chapter Thirteen
I think that the good and the great are only separated by the willingness to sacrifice.
–Kareem Abdul-Jabbar
Brent
I haven’t signed the contract yet.
In the afternoon, I meet with Roger. I manage to fake enthusiasm and then put him off by telling him I want to talk to Dad about it.
Yeah right, like I would tell him anything.
I’m panicking. The MRI confirmed the results of the 2-D echo, like my doctor had suspected. She pushed me again for surgery and I told her I would call later to schedule it. Everything I do is just a delaying tactic for the inevitable.
I promised to face my demons and still . . . I let them freeze me.
It’s early evening and thankfully Bethany is home when I get there.
The most welcome distraction of my day.
She’s in the living room in her PJs. There’s a carton of ice cream on the table and she’s trying to balance a spoon on her nose.
I laugh. “What are you doing?”
“This is much harder than it looks.”
“I’m sure. You left some ice cream on it.”
“Oh.” She pulls the spoon from her face, leaving a smear of cream behind, and sticks the spoon in her mouth to clean it.
She’s not trying to be sexy. There’s ice cream on her nose. But her pink lips closing around the spoon make my mouth water anyway.
“C’mere. Try it.”
I sit in front of her on the floor and she tries to balance the spoon for me, moving slowly and leaning in close before gently placing the curved part on the tip of my nose.
She’s focusing hard, her tongue sticking slightly out the corner of her mouth, food still on her face, and I crack up.
The spoon clatters to the floor.
“Stop laughing!”
I laugh harder.
She falls back on the floor, groaning. Her shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of smooth skin.
I swallow. “Have you been drinking?”
She sits up, tugging her shirt down, her expression chagrined. “I had a can of wine. I don’t normally because my—” She cuts off with a cough, then takes a drink of water from the glass on the table. “But I just . . . today was hard.”
“A can of wine, huh?”
She shrugs. “I’m real classy like that.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the good news is the super found something.”
“What did he find?”
I notice the misdirection and the sentence chopping, but I don’t comment. There’s something going on with Bethany that she clearly doesn’t want to share. I understand the sentiment, even though I wish she would confide in me. But the apartment haunting is a safe topic.
“The dumbwaiter goes all the way to the basement, by the laundry room. It’s obvious someone’s been in there. It’s all cleared of dust and cobwebs. Someone has been using the pulley system. The original paneling for the opening to my apartment has been built over, but there’s a latch from the inside of the dumbwaiter and they found a crack in the corner of my closet. Someone has been creeping in there. Why? Who knows! Because I’m cursed. Anyway, they boarded it up temporarily, and they’re getting a contractor to pour concrete over the entrance within the next few days. So I can move back. You don’t have to deal with me anymore.”
“I like dealing with you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So you’re resorting to canned wine because you’re cursed?”
/>
“And because your father is a poop taco.”
I groan. “What did he do now?”
She leans toward me. We’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing each other like kindergartners.
“I keep setting up interviews with these amazing applicants, and he keeps running them off.”
“I wish I could say that info is surprising. What’s he doing now?”
“Well one woman was slightly overweight and he asked her when the baby was due and if it would interfere with her job.”
I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. But wait, it gets worse. He had a list. I think he got them from a website about questions you absolutely cannot ask during interviews. There were some about religion, sexual preference, age . . . All the biggest no-nos in the HR world, he tapped into it. I had to talk people out of suing. He’s a tyrant.”
I lean closer and rub her shoulders. They were getting progressively higher and tighter as she told the story.
Her eyes fall shut. She moans and leans into my hands. “I’ll give you thirty minutes to stop doing that.”
I swallow. I should stop this. In a couple minutes.
In the meantime, I take advantage of the moment to watch her with her eyes closed. Her head tilts to the side and my gaze trips down the slope of her neck and stops right where it meets her shoulders. I rub a thumb over the spot. She’s so soft. I want to bite her, right there. Her mouth opens slightly. It would be so easy to lean in and sample her mouth. What would she taste like? Vanilla ice cream? Wildflowers and sugar?
Before my thoughts make me completely lose it, I remove my hands with a final pat. “I’ve got an idea. You’re calling in tomorrow. We could both use a break and it can be like our own little goodbye party since you won’t be my roomie anymore.”
“What? I can’t take time off. I’ll get fired.”
“Hasn’t he already fired you like fourteen times?”
“More like forty. He gets mad when I don’t agree with him on everything, but the truth is he wants me to disagree with him. He’s just ornery.”
“Trust me. He can’t live without you. You’ve burrowed your way into the company faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. He can’t fire you and I won’t let him. I’ll call him myself if I have to. You’ve been working too hard. At the office and now on the charity game. You need a break, a mental health day. I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is wear comfortable shoes.”
She purses her pink lips at me. “I’ll agree if you promise not to go all crazy and spend a bunch of money. That will just lead to guilt. And then I’ll feel even worse and I’ll drink even more and you’ll have to check me in to Betty Ford, and then the press will run stories about how you turned me into a major druggie cult member.”
I laugh. “Well that progressed quickly. Fine. You got it. Scout’s honor. Everything we do tomorrow will be free or cheap. But you have to be ready to go by seven.”
She straightens. “Wait, in the morning?”
~*~
I’m ready with coffee by six thirty, feeling more upbeat and positive than I have all week. I’m excited to show Bethany around my city and see her reactions to everything. But it’s more than that. I love spending time with her. Except it’s getting harder and harder not to take her in my arms and kiss her.
She emerges from the bedroom at six fifty-five with a zombie-like moan. “Coffeeee.”
I hand her a cup as she comes into the kitchen, which she takes without comment.
She’s wearing a soft long-sleeved shirt with a large neck that exposes one shoulder. Her hair is a mess of curls and she’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever seen, even with puffy eyes and a tired face.
She takes a sip of the coffee, leaning back against the counter and eying me.
I glance down to see what she’s looking at. I’m dressed simply in jeans, a long-sleeved grey Henley, and an old-school pair of Vans.
“After you get ready, we need sustenance.” I rub my hands together.
She lifts a brow. “Are you on the menu?” Immediately, her hand claps over her mouth and her cheeks flush.
Laughter bubbles out of me. I was thinking something similar a minute ago. “I think your filter is broken.” I give into the urge to reach over and push a lock of her wild hair behind her ear. The fleeting touch of her soft skin sends a frisson of yearning through my body.
I want so much I can’t have.
And why can’t I have? Would it really be so bad to consider more? I know Bethany is attracted to me and we have fun together. Would it be so horrible?
Although, she’s been vocally averse to being “date-y” with me from the get-go.
And then there are my medical issues. But what if her thoughts have changed now that we know each other? And what if I told her everything? Would she run? Could I blame her if she did? I can barely face my own demons. How can I expect someone I care about to face them with me?
“It’s because it’s early,” she whines and drags my thoughts back to the moment. “How are you so happy and energetic?” She squints at me. “Satan?”
I chuckle. “Don’t worry. I’ll feed you and you’ll be as good as new. You’re going to eat what all good New Yorkers eat in the morning: a bagel from a cart. Now hurry up and get dressed and I’ll make you more coffee.”
She frowns at me but saunters down the hall anyway. “Fine, fine, I’m going, I’m going,” she mutters.
She reemerges ten minutes later in form-fitting jeans and a T-shirt, looking much more awake and a lot less cranky.
“I’m ready for my tour, Mr. Lord of the Underworld.”
“Good. The River Styx awaits you, my lady,” I say as I’m opening the door for her.
We leave the Porsche behind. “No having to deal with parking,” I explain. “We’re using cabs and subway only.”
“What if people recognize you?”
I shake my sunglasses at her before putting an Oakland hat on, making her laugh. “I’ll definitely be incognito in this.”
We stop for more coffee and the bagels I promised, and I make her try one with lox.
“Is that fish?” She wrinkles her nose.
“You have to try it. It’s like a New York institution.”
From there, it’s a whirlwind of sightseeing.
The early spring morning is brisk and bright, and I use the chill in the air as an excuse to stay close to Bethany, our arms bumping periodically as we walk.
We go to Times Square, already bustling with activity. We stop on the pedestrian walkway in the center and she eyes the activity around us as I watch her. I don’t have to look to know what she’s seeing: brightly colorful billboards, zipper news crawls, a giant wooden art installation in the shape of a ship. The sounds of traffic accompany the view, the hum of tires on the pavement mingling with the occasional honk.
“Times Square is sometimes referred to as the center of the universe and the heart of the world,” I tell her. “It got its current name in 1904 when The New York Times moved its headquarters into the Times building.” I point out the tall building. “The Times isn’t there anymore. Now it’s where they drop the ball on New Year’s Eve.”
Bethany claps her hands together. “You’re going to tell me some history, too? This is the best tour ever.”
I grin. “It was originally called Longacre Square after Long Acre in London, because it was a big mecca for horse and carriage trading.”
“I can’t imagine this place covered in horses. Or grass.”
From there, we take the subway to Broadway to see the fearless girl. I get a picture of Bethany facing down the bull with her lips pursed and her eyes crossed.
“Charging Bull was installed in 1989 by Arturo Di Modica. When Kristen Visbal was commissioned to install Fearless Girl, Di Modica was pretty pissed.”
“Why?”
“It was an advertising shtick, and she turned the bull i
nto a bad guy when it’s supposed to be a symbol of strength.”
“Hm. I like both of them. A bull doesn’t have to be a villain. He could be like Ferdinand.” She pats the sculpture on the head. “He totally looks like he wants to sniff the flowers.”
It’s a quick walk—less than ten minutes—from there to the Staten Island Ferry.
“It’s free?” she asks, eyes wide while we rush through the stale smell of fast food across the terminal to make the next ferry.
“Absolutely. And it runs every thirty minutes, twenty-four hours a day.”
“It’s huge,” she gasps as we walk the pathway onto the giant orange boat. “I thought it would be like a little tugboat or something.”
Her reactions are everything I thought they would be, wide-eyed wonder and enthusiasm. It makes the whole experience that much more thrilling for me—like I’m seeing it all again for the first time.
I make sure we get a good viewing spot on the east-facing side. We stand on the deck and sail past the Statue of Liberty. “Best view of the statue in the city,” I tell her.
The wind whips her curls back and she watches me with bright, excited eyes, the tip of her nose already turning a little red from the brisk March breeze. “Tell me all the things.”
I set my elbows against the railing and lean toward her. The view of Bethany’s smile is better than anything else we’ve seen today. “The statue’s full name is ‘Liberty Enlightening the World.’ ”
“Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it?”
“Lady Liberty wears a size 879 shoe.”
“You know what they say about women with big feet.”
“What do they say?”
“Big toes.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yep. You’re just now figuring this out? Next factoid, please.”
“Visitors have to climb 354 stairs to reach the crown.”
“Thank God we took the ferry.”
I point to Ellis Island as the boat plows onward. “Ellis Island was used for pirate hangings in the early 1800s.”
“Pirates,” she gasps and leans closer, lowering her voice like she’s telling me a secret. “What did the pirate say when he blew out his candles on his eightieth birthday?”