Page 65 of Not on the Same Page

“The last time she called, I was fifteen. I remember it vividly.” And so you do you because you were standing there the whole time, I think but don’t dare say.

“Mm-mm. She called on your birthday every year. And your high school graduation. A few times in between.”

That can’t possibly be true. If she had called, I would have talked to her. I lived for those phone calls, however brief. “No, I’d have remembered that.”

The line goes silent. I look at my screen to be sure Aunt Donna is still there. When I put the phone back to my ear, I speak again, more firmly this time. “Aunt Donna? Did you not tell me when my mom called?”

Finally, she lets out a frustrated huff. “Talking to her wasn’t good for you.” She sounds perfectly awake and alert now. I suppose that’s what happens when you realize you inadvertently admitted to lying to your niece for seventeen years.

My free hand shakes, and my entire body buzzes with rage. “That wasn’t for you to decide.”

“You were in my care. I had to look after you, even though I never asked for it. And I did a damn good job. Some foster kids aren’t so lucky.”

She’s probably being defensive, but that sounds vaguely like a threat—like she could still take away the bare minimum of kindness she showed me when I lived with her.

“I should have been allowed to talk to my mother if she called.”

“What good would it have done? She wasn’t coming to get you, and even if she did, you’d have been right back with me the minute she fell back into her old ways.” Aunt Donna isn’t even a little apologetic. She’s slipped into her holier-than-thou tone she always used for her lectures, especially ones that were inspired by my mother’s behavior.

She might not have. If I were with her, maybe she’d have turned things around faster. It’s impossible to know, of course, but logic be damned. My heart wants to believe that we would have been good for each other. That we could have helped each other. That I could have saved her.

My knees suddenly give out, and I sink to the floor. I rub the side of my foot against the cool laminate flooring, trying to let it ground me. It’s no use. I feel like I’m floating away.

“You told her not to come get me.” It’s a statement, not a question. A realization that has forced its way into my brain, uninvited, and taken root there.

“I told her she should stay away unless she could guarantee she wouldn’t land herself back in prison. And guess what? She did. Several times.”

“I suppose the money the state gave you for me wasn’t any motivator,” I finally say.

“How dare you,” Aunt Donna spits out. “That money was barely enough to cover your living expenses.”

That line of reasoning isn’t worth following. She’ll only deny it the more I push. “What did you tell her when she called?”

Aunt Donna goes quiet for a beat. Then, as if she has talked herself back onto her moral high ground, she says, “I told her you were unavailable. However she interpreted that is up to her.”

For seventeen years, my mother has likely believed I didn’t want anything to do with her, all because someone I trusted—my aunt, my mother’s sister—lied. She lied to my mother, and she lied to me. And now, my mom wants to reach out again, but she’s probably scared because she thinks I don’t want anything to do with her.

“Give me her number,” I demand. I can still fix this.

“She doesn’t have one. She’s living at a safe house, so you’d have to go through the state to get access to her contact information.”

“Then tell me how to do that.”

“Look, Catrina. I don’t know. She didn’t tell me where she was, only that she wanted to call you. She might follow through. She might not. Don’t hold your breath.”

As much as I want to scream at my aunt and cut her out of my life, I’m acutely aware that if she’s telling the truth, she’s the only connection I have to my mom. And, suddenly, I want to talk to my mom more than anything.

“If she calls you again, tell her I want to talk to her. You owe me that much.” And with that, I end the call.

I sit on the floor for a long time. I’m not sure how long, but by the time my ass hurts and my legs ache, the sun is high in the sky and the room is warm. I could go to the library. The library would make me feel better, but my heart aches at that reminder of my past. I don’t think I’d be able to avoid a meltdown in the stacks.

Casey could also probably make me feel better, but I’m not desperate enough to make a booty call in this emotional state, no matter how much I’ve been wanting to feel his body against mine, to let him make me forget all of this for a little while.

“I’m right here. That’s not hypothetical, either.”

Fuck, he scared me with that line. But not in the same way it scares me that my mom might never call. In the way that I want to let him be. I want to trust that he won’t pack up and walk away as soon as he finds out what a shambles my life is outside of the office and the bedroom. And yet, I’ve been avoiding any conversation with him except for a few things about Imani because the truth remains—my life is what it is, and he has enough to deal with.

And what I don’t want to admit out loud is that, if he does walk away, it would break my heart.