Page 25 of Not on the Same Page

I drag my hands down my face and glance at my phone. I could shoot her a text. Just to see what she’s doing. What’s a harmless text between friends and colleagues?

Typing then deleting at least three messages, I ultimately give that up too. Everything I type sounds like a booty call. Which…it is. But I don’t want it to sound like one. That didn’t work out for us last time, so I’m not sure why this would be any different.

I’m glaring at my phone as if it has personally offended me when it dings and lights up.

Trina: You hungry?

I stare at that message until the screen goes dark. And then, instead of responding, I grab my keys and wallet and head out the door.

9

TRINA

“Your mom wants your phone number.”

I’m silent for a moment, trying to process this information from my Aunt Donna, and asking myself one more time why the fuck I thought it was a good idea to answer the phone. Oh, I know why. Because I told her I’d call her when I got home from this conference, and she called again anyway, so I thought for sure someone had died.

Nope. Just someone resurrected from my past.

I haven’t spoken to my mother since she was arrested and incarcerated for drug possession with intent to distribute when I was nine. It was determined I’d live with my Aunt before she even went to trial, and when she was convicted to a three-year prison sentence, I stayed there. At the time, I remember hoping she’d come back for me, but she didn’t. I was devastated, but I can admit now it was for the best. She was in and out of jail a lot.

Now that I’m thirty-two, I haven’t even really kept tabs on her, and the only information I’ve gotten is when Aunt Donna updates me, which admittedly isn’t all that often.

“Catrina?” Aunt Donna asks when I’m silent for too long, her tone sharp. “Stop biting your nails.”

“I’m not,” I say as I lower my hand from my mouth. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.

“Mm.” She’s clearly unconvinced. “So, what do you want me to tell her?”

Theoretically, I should want to talk to my mom. I have fond memories of her, and there was a time I would have given anything to hear from her. But my clammy hands and shallow breathing are telling me I don’t want this at all.

“Why does she want to talk to me now?”

“This is really none of my business,” Aunt Donna says dismissively, almost annoyed.

She’s literally made it her business by calling me in the first place, but I don’t dare say that.

“Can I think about it?” My voice is weak, almost small, and I hate myself for how it sounds.

Aunt Donna sighs heavily. “She asked to contact you. I thought I was doing the right thing by asking your permission.” She sounds magnanimous, as if she’s doing me a huge favor by even consulting me on something that could disrupt whatever tenuous hold I have on my emotional stability.

“Okay, then tell her no.”

She makes a dissatisfied noise, and I allow myself an eye roll. She can probably sense that through the phone too, but I don’t care. If she wants a certain outcome here, she needs to just come out and say it.

“She’s your mother.”

“I lived with you longer than with her,” I mutter.

“I’m not your mother.”

As if I needed reminding. The difference between how she treated me and her actual daughter—my cousin, Evelyn—was stark. Maybe an outsider wouldn’t have noticed, but it was clear as day to me. I was an annoyance. Something that was thrust upon her, not something she desired. And she made it known in small ways, like her tone when talking to us, or how disgusted she always was at my anxious habits whereas she was so empathetic of Evelyn’s.

“Look,” I say. “I have another session in ten minutes. I’ll think about it and call you back when I get home on Sunday, okay?” It’s a bald-faced lie, but I am not equipped to make this decision right now.

“Will you, really?” It’s more of a statement, like she obviously doesn’t believe me.

“Yes. Goodbye, Aunt Donna.”