I twirl my fuchsia phone cord and wait for my mom to pick up on the other end. Caitlin bought the Barbie princess phone for me as a humorous and congratulatory gesture when Beau and I started to go out. From Angelica it would have been an insult.
“Hello, my dear! Right on time.” Mom answers our weekly call with her usual energy.
“I had to set my alarm,” I say, looking at the clock. It is just after 8:30 for me but 11:30 for Mom and Dad in Washington, DC.
“I don’t believe you. You were always such an early riser.”
“I was?” Probably so I could get a hot shower. Sharing three showers with a dozen kids from the shelter did not allow for much warm water, not to mention privacy.
“You and Marcus were the only ones to help out with breakfast on weekends. He still is such a big help.”
Mom makes a point of mentioning Marcus Dean at least three times a conversation. Not just because he is a nice guy who is helping at the shelter while working on his PhD, but because he was my high school sweetheart and a former resident of the shelter. Mom sees him as her success story and would love our story lines to intersect.
“Have you made your decision about running for city council?” I change to the only subject that will distract her.
“I just sent my official candidate application yesterday. Are you proud of your mother?”
“Yes, of course! It is great news—especially for the neighborhood.” Mom has long been a pursuer of change and a vocal advocate for youth resources in Washington.
“Once my application is approved my campaign must start right away. These days, they don’t give council candidates much time to be visible. I’m kicking it all off with a meet and greet at your old grade school. Marcus is going to help. Isn’t that nice?”
Two down, one to go.
“Hey, did I tell you that Beau was selected for a special mentor program? Only five directors of assisted care facilities are chosen in the nation.”
“Beau is such a good man. So he gets someone to help him do his work?” Mom inquires. She likes him; she just has a blind spot the size and shape of Marcus.
“Actually, the mentor is really someone who collaborates with him. The assigned professional communicates with Beau and reviews his ideas, projects, whatever. At the end of the program, the mentor and the director create a series of papers and pursue grant funding for further development.”
“Outstanding. Outstanding.” Mom’s voice is muffled.
“Mom?”
“Yes, dear. Development. Excellent.”
“I need to get going. I’m meeting the others for breakfast in just a few minutes.” Mom’s attention span is worse the older she gets. Too much going on, and she is so easily distracted by the action of the youth shelter. Frustration carried over from childhood bubbles up in me.
More muffled sounds and a man’s voice in the background. My dad usually wants to say hello.
“Put him on,” I say, checking my clock again. If I forget makeup and just put my hair in a ponytail, I can still get to breakfast on time.
“Certainly!” Mom says to me and then I hear her gleefully turn the phone over with, “She wants to talk to you.”
“Mari?”
It is Marcus. Thanks, Mom.
“Hey, Marcus. I thought you were Dad.”
“Just me, I’m afraid,” he says, a bit put out.
“I didn’t mean that…I was just surprised. So how is school going?”
“Good. Good enough. Isn’t it wonderful about your mom running for council? She is going to do great things.”
Marcus is as much of a cheerleader for Mom as she is for him. It is a club I didn’t always feel a part of.
“I really have to get going, Marcus. My friend Caitlin will be here any minute to take me to breakfast.”
“How is Bo-Bo? No, wait—Bono?”
Yeah, I’m really buying this act of indifference. “His new CD is great. And he’s helping pay off the debt of third world countries. So good of you to inquire.”
He laughs.
I don’t.
“Tell Dad I’ll catch him next week. Good luck with your classes, Martin.”
I slam down the phone, but the fluffy fuchsia princess receiver only makes a very dissatisfying thud.
It isn’t until I slam the passenger door of Caitlin’s car with a very satisfying thunderous “WHAM!” that I wonder if my overreaction is something other than anger.