I didn’t bother to say anything else. I gave my best friend a final look of frustration before going back into the living room to join Damien on the couch again. I tried not to cringe as he put his arm around me.
Maysie’s punch in the gut small talk had done a number on me. I could barely sit in the same room with Damien with her words ricocheting around in my head.
“You’re not really thinking of going to that concert, are you?” Damien asked, flipping through the TV channels like he lived there. Another of the many Damien personality quirks that drove me nuts.
TV domination was definitely at the top of the list.
Reaching over, I grabbed the remote from his hand and purposefully turned it to an over the top reality show that we both abhorred. Damien made a face. “Since when do you watch this mind rot?” he asked dismissively.
“Since you and I stopped spending every waking hour together,” I shot back, turning up the volume.
Damien rolled his eyes but didn’t comment. “So we’re going to the poetry reading, right?” he asked, moving the conversation back to our evening plans and Maysie’s arm twisting suggestion of going to see Generation Rejects play.
Damien seemed so hopeful and eager that I couldn’t say no. It would be like throwing a puppy into oncoming traffic. “Sure, poetry reading. Sounds groovy,” I replied, knowing that it was by far the safer option.
Being in the same room as Garrett left way too much potential for explosion.
After Damien left, I filled the hours with every distraction I could think of. My mind too often sought to slip in a dangerous direction.
Why is it when you make up your mind about something, your heart was there to call you on your bullshit? I hated my heart; I wish it would shut the hell up. It didn’t help that Maysie was there to cheer my heart on.
I had never been so thankful for the sound my ringing phone in my life. I was spending too much time in my own head and I was looking for a jailbreak.
Seeing my mom’s name on the screen I tried not to feel the twinge of apprehension. I hated that I was hesitant to answer it. I used to love talking to my mother. I had enjoyed our conversations and her quirky advice.
Now I never knew what to expect. When she was good, I could pretend things were just like they were before.
But when she was bad I couldn’t live in my shiny world of denial. And I liked living there, thank you very much.
“Hey, Mom,” I said after answering it.
“Hey, baby girl. How are you?” Mom asked and I relaxed in relief. Mom sounded good.
“Eh, can’t complain,” I said, sticking with the bare bones of the truth. At one time I would have unloaded all of my drama on her very capable shoulders. Now, that ship had sailed and I worried about giving her more than she could handle.
I could hear my mother letting out a noisy breath on the other end. “Stop walking on egg shells around me, Riley. I promise I won’t crack. Now talk to me. There’s more to that statement then you’re saying,” my mother scolded and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
“First, how are you, Mom? I know you had your support group meeting today. I was going to call you later to see how it went,” I asked before she could badger me for more details about my life.
My mom had started attending a support group for people who have lost loved ones. She had only been to three meetings and the first two times she had been such an emotional wreck afterwards that I wasn’t sure she should go back.
But she was insistent that she continue going and from the sound of her, I had hope it might actually help.
“It was hard. Every second of every day is a struggle. It’s hard for me to keep going in this life without your dad. I expected many more years together. I feel…cheated,” she admitted quietly and I felt the familiar tightness grip my chest.
“I know, Mom. I do too,” I said just as quietly.
We were silent after that for a while, neither of us willing to talk until emotions were in check.
“But everyone says time heals all wounds and I can only hold onto the hope that one day I will be able to remember you father without feeling the excruciating pain of his loss,” my mom finally said and I was reminded of Garrett’s words before leaving Maryland.
“Just try to take it one day at a time,” I told her. My mom’s chuckle eased some of the suffocating grief.
“Such a wise daughter I’ve raised,” she teased and I laughed in return.
“I just listen to people way smarter than me,” I acknowledged, surprised to find myself putting Garrett in that category.
“Very true. Now moving on to you. Tell me what’s going on in your life. What’s going on with that handsome boy your brought with you to Maryland? I really liked him, Ri,” Mom said, and I desperately wanted to shut down this conversation as quickly as possible.
“I got approved for an independent study next semester. Professor Cartwright is going to supervise it. Now I just have to decide on a topic. I was thinking of comparing Stuart era feminism through the plays of Aphra Behn with modern poet Adrienne Riche. Professor Cartwright says he’s never heard of anyone comparing those two before, so it would be something brand new,” I was rambled, hoping that if I talked long enough, Mom would forget about her well intentioned intrusive line of questioning.
No such luck.
“That sounds great, Riley. But why are you avoiding us talking about your fellow? What was his name again? I’m sorry I don’t remember it,” my mom broke in and I knew she wouldn’t let it go.
“Garrett. His name is Garrett Bellows,” I admitted, knowing avoidance efforts would be defeated by my mother’s information seeking militia.
“Garrett. I like that name. How did you meet him? Does he go to Rinard?” she asked and I snorted.
“Not exactly,” I said, knowing I sounded judgmental.
My mom picked up on my snotty tone instantly. “What’s that for? Does he go to a rival school or something? Is this like some sort of co-ed Romeo and Juliet?” she joked and I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see me.
“No, he doesn’t go to another school. He doesn’t go to school at all,” I said.
“Did he already graduate?” she asked.
“No, he never went,” I told her.
“Oh,” my mother said shortly. “And this is obviously a problem for you,” she surmised.
“Well of course it’s a problem! He has no goals! Well nothing that goes beyond playing guitar in his silly rock band. How could I ever fit with someone who doesn’t want what I want? We have absolutely nothing in common, Mom!” I let out in a huff. I had gotten loud and I knew I was getting way too worked up.