Page 46 of Letters From A Stalker

“Because I apparently slept on my sofa in yesterday’s clothes.”

“Come again?”

“I came home, laid down and woke up about five minutes ago. Apparently my body decided consciousness was optional.”

There is noise on her end, followed by what sounds like a car door closing.

“Jesus, Jules. Are you okay?”

And there it is. I’m fine is already sitting on the tip of my tongue when yesterday’s session comes rushing back with enough clarity to annoy me.

I stare at the coffee pouring into my mug. “I think so.”

Look at me. Growth.

“How was the appointment?”

I hesitate before answering because once I do, it’ll all come back rushing in. And while it was noon somewhere in the world and that would justify drinking at this time, nowhere in the world was early enough to unpack that much trauma.

“We talked about my mom,” But I say it anyway, because it’s Tessa.

“Oh.” There is another rustle on her end, then Tessa sighs. “So, same old shit?”

“Kind of, but actually, there was this thing that came up about when I was twelve and I think maybe—”

“Oh, shit. Hold on.”

I stop. There is muffled talking on her end, Tessa answering someone I can’t hear, followed by the beep of what sounds like a car locking.

“Sorry. I’m trying to get into work and fucking Rachel just texted me that she called out again, which means guess who gets to deal with her shit for the second time this week?”

The unfinished sentence dies quietly in my mouth. “You?”

“Ding, ding, ding.”

“What happened this time?”

And just like that, we move on.

Tessa tells me about Rachel, whose grandmother has apparently died for the third time since January, and I laugh in all the appropriate places while pouring coffee into my favourite oversized mug. By the time she finishes explaining whatever disaster is waiting for her at work, what I was about to tell her no longer feels important enough to drag the conversation backward.

It’s fine. The irony almost makes me laugh, while bad timing makes me want to hurl. My phone vibrates against the counter while Tessa is still talking. Mom. I open the message.

Mom:

Just got home from my appointment. Everything is fine, bloodwork looks good and the doctor said there’s nothing to worry about. I know you’re busy and have your own life, so I didn’t expect you to remember it was yesterday or ask how it went. Anyway, now you know I’m still alive.

My stomach drops with immediate precision, just like always when she sends text messages like these. She’s always been good with words like that, especially when she wanted to hurt someone. Mainly me. And just like clockwork, before I even have the time to rationalize and remind myself that this is what she always does, that this is how she calms her own mind and that I shouldn’t let myself get sucked into it, the guilt sets in. Always guilt first. Fuck. I forgot. She told me about the appointment last week. I should have remembered. It would have taken thirty seconds to send a message and ask how it went. Then, right on cue, the anger comes right behind it because of course she couldn’t simply tell me everything was fine. She had to put the little hook at the end and wait for it to catch. Because it does, every fucking time.

“Jules?”

I realize Tessa has stopped talking.

“My mom just texted.”

“Everything okay?”

“She had her doctor’s appointment yesterday. Everything’s fine.”