Yesterday, the phone rang hourly, like church bells, only not like church bells at all. Unlike the day before, each ring was an unwelcome interruption that jolted me out of my Deja New world and into a world that feels like it is trying to eat me alive. Mom called. Mom called again and again. Elliot’s number came up twice on the caller ID. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to discuss what happened, and I don’t want to talk to him about Marsden like we used to talk about Marsden before we slept together. What’s there to say anyway? Marsden is no longer talking to me. He still had a fever so he stayed home from school again. His door remained closed all day and as far as I know, he didn’t leave his room. Not to eat, not to brush his teeth, not to go to the bathroom. I tiptoed by his room every few hours and listened to the silent anger pouring out of it. Finally, last night I knocked on his door until he said, “Whaaa?” I often joke about Marsden’s monosyllabism. I shouldn’t have joked. I prefer the monosyllabic words to the grunts.
ME: How are you feeling, honey?
MARSDEN: Unh.
ME: Do you want some soup?
MARSDEN: Nuh.
ME: Tea?
MARSDEN: Nuh.
Marsden’s remoteness is making me think about how young I was when I started pulling away from Mom. Marsden started shutting me out five years ago. I’ve been shutting Mom out since I was eight. That’s four decades of punishing her. She doesn’t deserve four decades.
She deserves two decades. I should have started punishing her later in life.
To make up for my selfish behavior, I answered the phone every time she called yesterday.
“Elise, is this you?” she said each time I picked up.
“Of course it is.” I tried not to sound irritated. I was going for chipper. “How are you today, Mom?”
Our conversations started promisingly enough.
But then:
MOM: Elise, I don’t want that fat bitch coming into my house anymore.
ME: Mom, I don’t know who you’re talking about. Sue is not fat and she’s not a bitch, so it can’t be her.
MOM: I’m talking about that thing you send over every day. She’s not welcome here anymore.
ME: Mom, Sue is helping you.
MOM: I’m not letting her in again. I hope she dies.
ME: Mom, don’t say that. You shouldn’t say that about people. Especially not about Sue.
MOM: Okay, I don’t hope she dies. I hope she gets shingles. Or herpes.
ME: She’s just trying to help you out. You should be grateful.
MOM: I don’t want to be grateful. I want to be alone.
Mom’s rage crept toward paranoia and by last night, she was accusing Sue of stealing her Madame Bovary. Everyone wants Mom’s Madame Bovary.