Page 60 of Grand Escape

Seated behind my desk with my tie loosened and a lukewarm cup of coffee in front of me, I couldn’t help the Midwesterner in me coming out as I spoke. It happened frequently, especially when my mom was on the phone, a combination of remembering where I’d come from and what I wanted to escape.

“I’m good, honey. How are you? Settled in after your trip?”

Closing my eyes, I pulled in a deep breath.

I’d been home for a week. No, this wasn’t my first time talking to my mom since I’d been back. When I landed, I’d called to tell her I was home safely and in one piece. If I’d learned one lesson from Becca, it was knowing your loved ones were alive and well was pretty crucial.

“Yeah, yeah, I am. I’ve been pretty busy. Sorry, it’s no excuse.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. I only wanted to check in. Cal said you’re coming to see him next week.”

I took a sip of coffee, needing something to wet my already dry throat, plus a jolt of caffeine to help me make it through the rest of the afternoon. I’d been in court that morning with a client who refused to settle with her soon-to-be-ex, deciding it was better to waste money on me and let a judge decide for her.

“We’re meeting a client and then I’m heading back here. It won’t be a long trip.”

“Oh. Everything okay? You usually stay a day or two.”

I already knew my mom was aware Cal joined me in the Caymans. I also assumed she knew about the Rylan-slash-Chelsea situation that unfolded there.

“Yeah. We’re fine. You know he pulled a stunt, but I’m over it. I don’t feel like dragging out old news. Why don’t we get dinner next week when I get back, okay?”

“I’d love to, but I’m going on a synagogue trip to DC.”

“Oh, that’s great, Mom. After you get back, maybe?”

“Yes, yes. You can tell me about the nice young girl you met.”

And there it was, the guilt my Jewish mother was so practiced at wielding.

I knew Cal told her about Rylan, and I’d been waiting for Mom to question me about her. She’d want to know everything that happened from my perspective, all about Rylan’s history and family, my deepest feelings about her, and every detail about my plans with her.

“Sure, Mom,” I said, even though there was no more nice young girl in my life.

The only reminder I had of Rylan was my daily run and coffee habit. I was getting a bit faster in my running, and if the weeks to come were anything like this one, I’d be ready for the Olympics soon.

Desperate and hopeless, I’d texted Rylan a few times, but she’d ghosted me since I’d been home.

“I’ll let you know when I get back from New York, but you have a good time with the temple gang, okay?” God bless every single person who kept my mom occupied.

“Sure, honey.”

This is how it was with my mom, small talk sprinkled with honey and sweetie until she got what she wanted. We always skimmed the surface and never discussed anything beyond the shallow end, because anything deeper involved an ulterior motive on her part.

She blamed my dad for dying and for what happened to Becca, and we did our best to protect her from dark places in her mind. Never mind that I blamed myself for all of it, and Cal held Becca accountable, which made my mom beyond mad.

Between the three of us, we were a sad shitshow. We pretended to be a happy family unit on the outside, but we had layers and layers of issues.

The only thing we all agreed on was the synagogue group. They gave my mom peace and a social outlet. Cal and I paid for any trips or events she wanted to go to, and in return, it made us happy to think that maybe she was slightly happy too.

It was a circle jerk, if there ever was one. I hadn’t really evaluated it until I was on my way home from the Caymans, when time felt like it was suspended in front of me.

“’Bye, Mom,” I said, dragging myself from my thoughts and ending the call. I had to get out of this funk, or I’d be worse than I was before the trip.

Leaning back in my chair, I thought about my trip home.

On the plane, I’d numbed myself with a few minibottles of vodka and tomato juice. Once I had a buzz going, I decided there was nothing more I could do for Becca, and to keep mourning her was like Rylan still hating her parents and begrudging herself happiness. She worked hard and made a life for herself, no matter what her parents thought, except she wouldn’t allow herself to move on and make a real life.

On the layover, I’d texted Rylan, “I’m going to miss you,” and she replied with, “Safe travels.”

---