Page 113 of Letters From A Stalker

For several seconds, I simply watch it ring. I could let it go to voicemail. The fact that the possibility even occurs to me feels like evidence of something changing, because not long ago I would have answered immediately while inventing six different emergencies she might be calling about.

I answer anyway. “Hey.”

“What are you doing?” No hello.

I lean one hip against the counter and cradle the mug between both hands. “Making coffee.”

“At this hour?”

I glance toward the clock. “It’s Saturday.”

“I’ve been up since six.” Something about the way she says it makes the statement sound less like information and more like evidence in a case I wasn’t aware we were arguing.

“Congratulations?” I wince slightly, although I’m not sorry enough to take it back.

Silence follows.

“I had a thing with Nanna’s this morning,” she says after a moment.

“I know.”

Her tone changes immediately, sharpening with suspicion. “She called you already?”

“We talk, Mom.”

“I know you talk.” The emphasis she puts on talk makes it sound like the two of us are conspiring against her instead of occasionally having phone conversations.

I take another sip of coffee and wait.

“She was impossible this morning.”

I lower the mug. “How was she impossible?”

Mom lets out a frustrated breath. “She can’t do anything anymore, Julia. I asked her to put a few things away, and she just sits there while I end up doing everything myself. The kitchen was a mess, things were left on the counter, and half the time I can barely understand her when her voice gets like that.”

For a second, I genuinely don’t know which part to answer first. “She’s ninety-four.”

“I know how old she is.”

“Then why are you talking about her like she’s being lazy?”

“I didn’t say she was lazy.”

“You said she can’t do anything anymore because she didn’t clean the kitchen the way you wanted.”

Her voice lifts. “You weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t, but I know she is ninety-four and I know she shouldn’t have to prove she can still scrub a counter properly before she is allowed to sit down without getting yelled at.”

“I didn’t yell.”

“She said you raised your voice.”

Mom gives a short, humorless laugh. “Of course she did.”

The defensiveness arrives so quickly that my own temper begins climbing with it. “She wasn’t calling to complain about you. I asked because I could tell she was upset.”

“So now I’m the bad guy.”