“Hey, sweet girl.” Her voice is strained, tired. “How was your show tonight?”
“Good. It’s always good to play. Is everything okay?”
“Been a long week.” She pauses, and through the distance I hear a sniffle. She’s emotional, sometimes a complete wreck, but it’s been years since she called me just to cry.
“Mom, what’s going on? Why are you crying?”
“Oh, Lexi.” More sobs, but I wait patiently, “Time is so fleeting, you know that? I’m just ... I’m sitting here thinking about how I could have done better. I love you, sweet girl. You know I love you?”
“I know, Mom. I love you, too.” I tread carefully because she’s obviously upset and I don’t want to fuel her sadness. But I don’t understand what’s bringing this on. “What can I do?”
“You need to talk to your father.”
I walked right into that. “Absolutely not.”
“Lexi—”
“No. Mom. Look, I get why this is upsetting. I understand. I’m empathetic.” Or at least I’m trying to be. “But I am not calling him. I won’t reach out just to make him feel better about being a crappy father. He didn’t give two shits about me or what I was up to until last month.”
“That’s not fair and you know it. He always wanted to have a relationship with you, but respected your decision not to. He loves you, Lexi.”
“No.”
“He’s dying.”
“That’s life.”
Her gasp fills my ears and I cringe because I know how harsh that sounded.
“Mom, I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll think about it.” I won’t change my mind, but I don’t want to discuss this any further. Not tonight.
“One week, maybe two.”
“What’s in two weeks?”
“That’s how long he has. Maybe less. Don’t wait too long. Don’t make a decision you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting.”
“Mom, I have to go.” In a daze I walk to the kitchen, opening cabinets, searching. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Lexi. Just think about what I said—”
“Bye. Love you.” I cut her off and end the call before all my anger, sadness, and frustration erupts and I unload on her, saying hurtful things I don’t mean. Or rather, that I do, but are best left unsaid. I want a drink. I want to get shitfaced drunk and pretend today never happened. But I won’t. Mostly because Trent will walk through the bus door any moment and I won’t be able to resist him, not when all reason is stripped away.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. Taking the smarter, responsible route, I pull down a mug, grab the coffee pot and fill it with water to brew coffee. Inhale, deep breath. Exhale, let it go. I won’t feel guilt. I won’t grant my father absolution simply because he’s met an untimely death. I won’t repeat the sins of my mother, either. I am strong. I am stronger. As the aromatic roast trickles out, burning black, the scent fill my nostrils, and for what might be the first time since I was a child, I pray to a higher power, for peace, for guidance, and for strength.
I am strong.
If I repeat it enough, maybe I will believe it.
