Page 172 of Falling Offsides

The rhythmic vibration of my phone preludes a loud jarring ring that echoes through the empty space.When I grab it from the bench, everything in my chest lurches at the name.

Mom.

I let it ring a couple more times, unsure I want to take the call. I’m still working through the fact that she kept my dad from me. I’m upset and I can’t see how talking to her right now is going to help how I feel.

Trudging through the tunnel towards the corridor to the exit, I take another glance at my phone and I don’t know… that little voice that reminds me this woman is my mom, cuts through all the rest. With a deep inhale, I answer the call and exhale slowly, quietly as mom greets me.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Her voice is light. Too breezy given we haven’t spoken in weeks.

“Hey.” I sit on the nearest bench, half-hidden behind a potted plant. My heart jackhammering in my chest.

“How are you?” she asks when I remain silent.

“Fine…”

“Good.Good. How’s everything in LA?”

She would know if she picked up my calls or replied to any of my texts. She hasn’t. Not once. Not one. Now, she’s acting like there isn’t a shadow looming over us.

As much as I want to tell her how badly she’s hurt me, I go for something less confrontational. Because the Libra in me always wins out.

“LA’s good. I’m busy… learning and… yeah… everything is fine.”

“Aww, you’re all grown up and learning what it’s like to be an adult.”

I’ve known what it’s like to be an adult for a very long time. Her husband’s favorite words to me have always been “grow up”. Again, I breathe through the anger cloying my chest and wait for the next question she wants to ask. The next window she wants to try and creep through to my good graces. And honestly, I think I’m all out of those. I’m tired of making excuses for her. For the way she treats me. Like I’m baggage from an era of her life she wants to forget. Maybe I am, but that’s not my fault.

“So,” she starts, pausing with a sigh like whatever she’s about to say is so blasé.

“So…”

The Stepford chuckle trills down the phone, making me cringe. “Your father told me he bought you an apartment in New Orleans.”

“No,” I say, immediately. “He didn’t buy it for me. It’s an investment forhim.”

She tsks, and I can picture her thumbing her pearls in that silent frustrated way of hers. “Courtney, come on. Don’t split hairs. If your father bought the place and you’re living there, it’s yours. You’re set up. He bought it for you.”

I don’t bother arguing or telling her that the reason he bought it is because the rent was extortionate and his accountant advised him to invest some of his liquidity to help with his tax bill. To be honest it’s none of her business, and at this point with everything I know, I don’t owe her any explanation. So I go back to keeping quiet and letting her lead the call. No one’s crying this way.

“Well,” she hums, “it’s all very nice and generous of him. And you know, since you’ve got a place of your own now… Well, the house is superfluous to you.”

“The house… our house?” The Washington property that Dad let her keep by signing his half over to me in a trust to avoid uprooting me anymore than the divorce already had.

“Courtney, you haven’t lived here since you left for college and you’ve hardly visited… your room is empty and the house is just getting too big for me and Martin on our own. Now you’re moving to New Orleans…”

“I’m in New Orleans for ten months and then?—”

“And then you’ll stay because The Crescents will want to keep you,” she croons with a sickly sweet tone that is completely put on. “So, I went ahead and had Martin’s lawyer draw up the transfer papers for the house.”

I freeze.

“What?”

“You know, it makes sense. You’re never going to live here again, and it’s not like Martin and I?—”

“No.” I don’t raise my voice, but it’s firm enough for her to draw a line on the conversation.

That house was our home. There are memories beneath all the new decor she and Martin have done. There are holidays and summer breaks and pancake mornings and movie nights on the floor with my dad. There are trees that he helped me climb, and a pool he taught me to swim in. There are memories.Mymemories. Good memories.

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