Page 36 of Vows in Sin
I put off calling my mom all day, watching Casablanca with Fifi, then spending my time cleaning up the apartment. The trash can rattles, empty glass bottles clanking against their drained companions. How much wine have I been drinking?
No more wine. No more Dame. No more writing angry monologues to Magda in my head.
No more checking the phone for Josie.
Most importantly, no more Reign.
Finally, late in the afternoon, with the apartment sparkling, I pick up the phone. I stand in the window, staring out over the skyline of the city that I love. The city that saved me from my mom. From my past.
From myself.
“We were a happy family until your dad left,” Mom says immediately, without a hello or a how are you. Her voice is already tight, already half-crying. She’s hit the gin early, but I guess it’s five o'clock somewhere? “Never trust a man, Sara.”
Sara. The name I grew up with. When I moved to the city, I realized I had an amazing first name that was unusual, and one people would remember.
I began using my full name, Seraphina, and haven’t looked back. Tabitha is the only one I talk to from my old life and she was happy to switch over.
Hearing her call me that, Sara, brings back the pain.
Sissy and Sara. Sara and Sissy. Alessi and Seraphina.
Now, just me.
“I don’t, Mom.” My voice sounds flatter than I intend. She hated men after my father left and often expressed it.
Which is probably why I’ve been single my entire life, with my latest obsession of going after emotionally unavailable men.
First, Dame.
Now, Reign.
Moving on.
“It’s the anniversary, you know,” Mom says.
Weeks ago. Months even. I don’t correct her.
“You, me, and Alessi.” Pain slashes through me when Mom says her name. “It was nice. Three strong women taking on the world together?—”
It was anything but.
My voice is a vice locked with tension. “I don’t want to talk about Sissy.”
“But I do,” she pleads.
“I can’t talk about her. Not with you. Not ever.” I cry out, “Why can’t you understand that?”
“How can you be so selfish?” she snaps. “I need someone to talk to. If I can’t talk to you—my only remaining family—who can I talk to?”
“Get a therapist. Tell a friend. Hell, go online and tell Google all about it. Anyone but me.”
“Why not, Sara? You need to talk about what happened. You’ve never healed from it.”
“Mom, don’t,” I warn.
“I haven’t healed,” she says.
“And I’ve never gotten over the death of my little sister,” I say. “So forgive me for not being your emotional crutch.”
