I glance at Olivia, finding her already staring at me. “Sorry, I should probably take this,” I say, giving her an apologetic look.
She waves her hand dismissively, telling me to answer it. She pulls away, putting over a foot of distance between us as we walk, politely trying to give me a fraction of privacy.
I step closer, closing the gap between us, not caring if she hears my conversation, before answering my phone. “Hello?”
“’Bout time you answered my call.” An annoyed, raspy, chain smoker–like voice comes through the line, making my blood run cold.
Caught off guard, I stop in my tracks. Olivia jerks to a halt a couple of steps in front of me, sensing something is wrong. She looks at me over her shoulder, a look of concern on her face.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice cold.
“Grandma is sick,” my mother says, as if the news is some sort of new revelation.
“She’s been sick for years,” I spit, wondering where she’s going with this. Why she’s really calling me.
My grandma has been stuck in a nursing home for over ten years now due to declining health. Admittedly, my grandma and I never had a very close relationship, solely because of my mother. I would only see her once every blue moon, sometimes when there was a holiday, or when my mother was sober enough to remember to show up to a family function.
When I was a baby, my teenage mom pushed me off on my grandma most of the time. Hell, she practically forced the woman to take care of me, sneaking out of the house to go get trashed, leaving me with her. My grandma finally had enough of her and her out-of-control drug addiction, and kicked her out.
While my grandma didn’t want me to be stuck with my mother, she couldn’t keep me either. I guess I can’t blame her for not taking me in. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with a baby, either, after I thought I was done raising my own kids and my health was starting to decline.
At least she seemed to care about me, though. Just because she couldn’t take care of me herself didn’t mean she didn’t try to find me a good home on her own. But when all of my family members and the friends she trusted declined to take me in, she had no other choice than to put me in foster care. She figured it was a lot better than being with my mother, who could put me in danger or overdose herself any second. That was the first time I went into the system.
I’ve kept in touch with my grandmother minimally over the years. Not so much after I became an adult. The last time I talked to her was probably over four years ago, and her dementia was pretty bad. She didn’t even remember my name.
“Well, she’s really sick now,” my mother says almost blandly. “They say this will be her last Christmas, and she really wants to see you.”
Bullshit.
The last time we spoke she hardly remembered who I was. There’s no way in hell she personally requested that I come see her. This is just a gateway for my mother to get me to Florida to see if she can snag any cash from me.
“I’m busy,” I say through a clenched jaw, my patience wearing thin.
“Too busy to come see your dying grandmother?” she asks, trying to manipulate me, making my blood boil.
“I’ll see,” I say sharply, and hang up the phone, not wanting to deal with her anymore. I know this is all just a game to her. She couldn’t really care less if my grandmother is dying, especially since my grandmother left her out of her will, and my mother sure as hell doesn’t call me for anything important. She only calls if she needs something.
Not even ten seconds after hanging up, the same number calls back and I instantly hit Decline. I turn off my phone and shove it into my pocket, not wanting to deal with it.
Blood boiling, I look up and see Olivia’s concerned face. I instantly snap back to reality. I’d forgotten where I was and what we were doing, spiraling in my anger.
She approaches me slowly, cautiously. “Hey, you okay?”
I look deep into her warm brown eyes, seeking comfort. Letting out a long exhale through my nose, I loosen my shoulders, my muscles taut from stress. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say, my voice rough.
She frowns, seeing through my lie, but her eyes are patient.
Those damn eyes, they get me every time.
Usually I’m a very reserved person. I’m not a big talker, especially when it comes to personal things, but when it comes to Olivia, all I can seem to do is talk. It’s almost scary how much I’ve told her in comparison to anyone else. But those eyes: big, warm, innocent, patient, inviting; they make me feel safe. Like I actually want to open up.
I let out another exhale, my hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. “That was my mom.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “What did she say?”
I shake my head. “Nothing important.”
I can tell that’s not the answer she’s looking for just by the look on her face, but her eyes are still patient, breaking me.
