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Then I recall how devious a devil can be. Fury accompanies the next word, which I spit in her direction. "eBay!"
Instead of shock and shame, she gives me a slow nod as if to say what about it?
Her reaction causes my blood to race. I'm going to need to fly a therapist out to Oregon to deal with the devastating toll this day is costing me. "You've been selling off my childhood. Living off my name, my fame as if you're responsible for any of it."
"A&Jagger4eva," she whispers a name from my past, forcing me to lean against the studio building. "Your dad was the Rolling Stones fan. One of the only good things you'll ever hear me say about him." Her laugh wipes years from her face. "That's where you got your love for all things Mick Jagger. You had a poster in your bedroom in sixth grade."
The memory places a matching smile on my face. Dad's musical tastes were all over the map. And I loved taking every trip with him up and down the radio dial.
"When I followed your band, I had to take time off from my job." I press my backside onto my hands and rock against the studio wall. I sway to an unheard tune, a desperate need for a rhythm to soothe me. "Too much time. They fired me. Three different jobs in two years."
I don't look up. If she thinks this is her way of justifying selling my childhood, she's barking up the wrong tree. "I realized I needed to work a flex job. An hourly job where I could stack up hours when you guys weren't on the road and take time off when you were. But you guys tour all the time." A broken laugh starts and stops when she must realize this isn't a joking matter.
"The first time I put an item up on eBay, it was out of spite." I stop rocking and prepare for another battle. "It was out of a financial desperation. All those little voices in my head that keep me in trouble pecking away. I wasn't in a good place." She shoots sympathetic eyes at me, seeking validation. I give her none. "The guilt got the better of me, and I pulled the listing down twenty minutes before the close. I did it three other times before I noticed the same username bidding on the items."
"A&Jagger4eva," I whisper. The only reason I came across the item was a damn Google alert the boys had me set up years ago. They each had one to troll the internet to see which cute girls might talk about them. They were nineteen and horny all the time.
Our manager, Cy, now has one for all of us to track pirated songs and to monitor social media news about the band.
"I thought it might be you the first time I saw it. When you returned for every bid, I knew it had to be you. I knew even if you didn't miss me, you missed home. I ran you away, just like I ran your father away. Both of you are as stubborn as the day is long." She quickly pumps her hands toward the ground. "Not like that." She blows her breath and swipes at her graying hair. "I mean. In a way, we both messed up, come back home kind of way. I knew you never would, but maybe I could give you back some of what you left behind."
I push off the wall. A curious need to understand her thinking. Mom may be tough, unforgiving, but she's never been a liar. "So, I set up another account, one to outbid everyone, not you, to make sure the only time a sale would go through was with you winning it. I wanted you to have those items. And each time you won a bid, I thought…" Her voice fades. "I thought you might remember the good times, not the goodbye. That you'd pick up the phone."
The sound of a truck passing breaks the somber mood. "I thought you were the cruelest mother on the planet. I thought you were selling off my childhood memories for profit."
"I would never."
I lift a finger to halt her defense. "I believe you." I exhale, not sure what comes next. Half a lifetime of anger doesn't just melt away like a dropped ice cream cone on a summer sidewalk. "I have a storage unit just outside of Columbus." I share a secret I've kept from everyone. Even Harper, my accountant who knows of the unit, doesn't know the next part. "Over the years, I've purchased furniture. The same furniture from my bedroom."
"You've recreated your room?" Her voice trembles with a sadness that rips at my heart. "I'm so sorry." Tears streak down her face, and she steps toward me. Arms lifted; she seeks my permission.
I lower my chin to my chest, curl into myself, and nod. It's been fifteen years since my mother hugged me. When her arms wrap around me, my tears join hers. She smells of peppermint and home.
She squeezes me tight, so tight I can barely breathe. Her lips press against my temple, whimpers in my ears, and drops tears on my shoulder.
"We're not going to braid each other's hair anytime soon or anything," I tease, in a desperate need for levity.
"I've missed you like I miss seven-layer cake," she whispers, an old bedtime joke we once played. A call and response game of all our favorite things.
"Like my mom's Italian meatballs." My voice cracks with the memory. My favorite dish. A dish I've never been able to enjoy in any restaurant in the world. The boys even attempted to make them for me once—it merely confirmed that they suck at cooking.
We play the silly childhood game as if I'm eight years old, and she's tucking me into bed for the evening. A happy memory long forgotten.
We hug and whisper to each other for several moments, all the while ignoring the burns from the bright summer sun on our backs. Both of us not wanting to let go.
"I expected to see the band at the workshop. But I have to say you on the stage by yourself is kind of special. I can't believe you're going solo."
I laugh. Does the entire world expect me to leave my band? Never. "Nope. They'll be arriving tomorrow. We're being added to the Sunday schedule."
"That's where Prince Ali performed last year. That's a big deal. Congratulations."
I give my mom's forearm a playful smack. "Prince Ali? Don't tell me you were here in Oregon last year?"
She winks at me. "I haven't missed a show in five years, dear. Do you want to hear me sing every one of your songs?"
"Let's hold off on that until the boys arrive," I joke and pull my phone from my rear pocket. "Let's see what time that's…" I swipe, and the emotional roller coaster of the day takes yet another turn. I can't. I have no more tears left to cry.
"Is everything all right, dear?"
