Page 40 of Over the Edge

“How are you?” she asks cheerily.

“Fine. Is there something wrong with your payments?”

“I heard you were home,” she ignores me, but that’s to be expected.

“I am.” I shouldn’t be surprised that town gossip has reached her, but I wish it hadn’t.

“What if I came to visit? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” she says, causing my stomach to twist.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years since we’ve been face to face. Fifteen years since she showed up at our tour stop in Vegas. She was smiling and wearing a glittery dress that managed to stick out in a crowd. We talked before I was supposed to go on for a mic check.

It’s the only performance I ever missed. The resulting migraine that came made it unsafe for me to be on stage with my nausea and spotty vision. It made me feel so useless. Everyone performed while I was tucked away in a dark hotel room.

Even though I haven’t seen her since, Lana and I still talk like this on occasion, or she sends me pictures of a chessboard from a trip to an antique store with messages likeReminds me of those times I’d come home from work and find you still up at midnight.

“You know what our deal is.” It’s simple now that it's been in place for a while. I give her monthly payments on the condition that she never comes back to Hartsfall and never asks for more. It’s her hometown, but she was hell bent on making people’s lives miserable when she lived here. The town took care of me when she didn’t, and I’m returning the favor.

Sometimes, I feel like I’ve given her a choice. Me and the town or the money; fifteen years and I’ve never made the cut.

“There are things I want to talk to you about in person, and oh, I miss the fall there. How are the stars? I bet they’re so bright. Tell me what they look like..”

I tilt my head to see stars wink at me over the treetops. “It’s cloudy tonight.”

My attempt to stop her stream of consciousness rambling proves ineffective as she barrels on. “Oh, what about the trees, are the trees starting to turn? You know, when I was growing up, I used to collect leaves. Your grandma and I would try to get the biggest one each year. I think I still have pictures of some of them. Have I shown you the pictures? If not, I can bring them.”

I do my best to block out the words.

She always means what she says, genuinely cares as words pour from her lips. That’s why everyone was willing to give her chance after chance, no matter what she did. She says sorry and you can’t help but believe her. She wants to show me these pictures and share the memories. But that is a foot in the door that has never led to anything good. In the end something else will catch her attention.

I hate thinking about it, but Lana reminds me a bit of Evelyn and the thought terrifies me. They both have this way of drawing people in, making them feel interesting and special. They don’t make small talk seem like an inconvenience and they want to share something with you, show you how they see the world in sparkling color. They’re fundamentally different beyond that. Lana wants to take, make things hers, make you believe that she is someone you can never leave because she shines so brightly. Evelyn would give her light away if it made you happy. I know the difference. I remind myself of it like a mantra. But it remains as a barrier I have to keep up no matter how much Evelyn draws me in, how much I love when she challenges me and makes me want her.

“I’m busy,” I say. This is the last thing I need.

“You can’t make time for your mother?” she whines.

Like you made time for me?

I struggle with it. She was seventeen when she had me. I can’t imagine having to take care of an entire other person at that age. Sometimes she did a good job, other times she didn’t. She’d miss rent payments or forget to get groceries because she ate meals at work. I learned to be self-reliant and careful. I learned everything I could so I could do it for myself.

“I have to go,” I say, already knowing this conversation isn’t going anywhere.

“Consider it,” she pleads. “Please.”

“I have.” I hang up.

No matter how short the conversations are with her, or if it’s been over a year since we last talked, my body feels like it’s under attack, muscles tightening for an invisible blow.

I keep my phone out and I pull up the chess app. It’s the mechanism I use when I can’t sit down and play music. Something that requires my full attention to get a clear-cut desired outcome without any catastrophic stakes. Pat is the one who introduced me to the concept, almost forced it on me, because so many of the things I took up as “hobbies” were more work than play since I wanted nothing to do with people my age.

The bar door swings open and music spills into the night as everyone enjoys the intermission. A few seconds later, Pat turns the corner.

She gives me a once over then wordlessly starts pulling out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. I hold out a hand and Pat places one of her Marlboros in it. After a flick of her lighter, I prop the cigarette between my lips, taking a long inhale.

I’ve mostly kicked the habit. I know it only makes my migraines worse in the long run. Still, there’s nothing else that quite grounds me like smoking. It was the first act of rebellion I ever took part in. Knowing it was against the rules was a thrill. Now I need it to remind myself that I’m finally the adult who has the power to do what I need.

“You’re a bad influence, being a teacher and all,” I say as I ash the cigarette.

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