Page 76 of Goodbye Days
She snaps the phone back up. “Mitzi? Mitzi? Is this Mitzi? Mitzi, this is Mama. Mama. Mitzi can you—can you turn the music down, please? Turn the music down, please. It’s not important how I got it; I need to talk to you. I know. I know, but you— Sweetie, please, you need to listen to— Because it’s about Blake. It’s about Blake.”
She’s crumbling in my hand. It’s like trying to grasp a handful of sand from the ocean while the waves come in.
She tries to say something else, but the words dam up in her throat. Tears course glistening down her cheeks. “I can’t,” she mouths. “I can’t.” She drops her phone hand to her lap, illuminating us in the screen’s ethereal white glow. Mitzi screeches something. Nana Betsy covers her eyes and shakes her head.
I feel it impending. Something sliding off a shelf. But it doesn’t fall. It sits tottering at the edge, waiting to fall. But it doesn’t fall.
This. You can do this for her if nothing else. I let go of Nana Betsy’s hand and slowly reach for the phone. I still hear Mitzi yelling. It would almost be comical if it weren’t so very uncomical. Nana Betsy barely resists before letting me take the phone.
I raise it to my ear. “Hello, Mitzi?” I swallow hard. My legs start bouncing. My heart is laboring.
“Who the fuck is this?” Mitzi speaks with a chemical croak. I feel roaches crawling under my skin and sores on my face and my teeth decaying just listening to it. She has gangrene at the jagged edges of her voice. In the background I hear a TV or loud music and a man’s voice saying something.
“This is…I’m Blake’s friend. Carver. Blake’s best friend.”
“What’s going on? Why’s my mama calling me about Blake? How’d she get my number?”
“We’re—we’re calling to tell you that Blake died in a car accident a little more than a month ago.” My throat throbs from restraining the deluge.
“What? No he didn’t. This a joke?” Her words are defiant, but her voice is small. Like that of a child who’s been told that a beloved toy is past repair. Or maybe like someone who’s been slapped. I hear that experience in her voice too.
I shake my head and then I remember Mitzi can’t see me. “Blake is gone. We had his funeral. We buried him. Nana—your mom tried to find you but she couldn’t in time. I’m—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. She wanted to tell you sooner.”
“No.” Mitzi’s voice is smaller still. “I don’t even know who you are.” I hear the man’s voice again, closer.
“I’m sorry.” My voice quavers.
“Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesuuuuuuuuuuus nooooooooooo.” Her lament collapses quickly into incoherent, unshapen shrieking.
I have to hold the phone away from my ear. Nana Betsy covers her ears and rests her elbows on the table. She’s sobbing and drawing ragged breaths.
When I put the phone back to my ear, Mitzi is keening a litany of “Put her back on. Put her back on. It’s her fault for taking him. I want to tell her. Put her back on. Put her back on. It’s her fault. It’s her fault he’s dead. Oh, Jesus Lord. Oh. Oh, I can’t. I can’t. Oh.”
“No,” I say, with as much steel as I can muster. “I won’t put her back on. You’ll yell at her.”
Nana Betsy lifts her head and reaches for the phone. But it’s a halfhearted attempt and I stand and pull away. Mitzi is choking on sobs. So I fill the space. “It’s not her fault. It’s nobody— It’s my fault. It’s my fault. You can yell at me. Do it. Yell at me. It’s my fault.”
She wails, “You let him get hurt. You didn’t take care of him.”
“I know,” I say, tears welling hot and dropping. “I’m sorry.” But something is turning in me. Something is combusting and turning to anger. I can tell I’m about to say something I’ll regret, and I’ve become acquainted with regret. “But neither did you. You weren’t there for him. You weren’t even there at the funeral. Your son had a good life because of your mom. He had friends and people who loved him. You should be so grateful to her. I’m—”
The line goes dead, and the only sound in my ears is Nana Betsy’s subdued weeping. I slowly lower the phone and set it on the table. I feel like I’ve been hung from a tree branch in a sack and beaten with a stick.
“I was going to give you back the phone. I didn’t want her blaming you. I didn’t expect her to hang up.”
She shakes her head. “Thank you for telling her.”
I suddenly realize that I more or less confessed to Mitzi in the process. I should probably not do that anymore. At this moment, though, I don’t really care. Let them try to find Mitzi. From the sound of things, she won’t even live another twenty-four hours. Better yet, let them crucify me. It would be a relief.
Nana Betsy looks hollow and vacant. She seems to struggle to hold up her head. “I’m wore out. I don’t have anything left.”
“I’ll go.” I start for the door.
“Blade?” she calls. “Will you playact one more thing with me?”
“Yes.”
“Let me really say goodbye to Blake.”
