Page 21 of Drum Me Away
She made a noise that for most people would be a snort but for her was this sort of quiet, elegant sound of disbelief. “You certainly have an odd way of showing it.”
“This is the first conversation we’ve had since I found out about Grandma. You have no idea whether I’m showing my sadness.”
“I don’t hear tears in your voice.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” I snapped, “did you call just to pick a fight?”
She sniffed. Imperiously. I suspected she wanted me to say something else, probably to reword my question into a politer version of “why are you calling?” but just like her, I hadn’t changed much since the last time we spoke, so I stood there at the railing and let the silence drag on.
When she couldn’t take it any longer, Mother said, “Ava is waiting for us to work out the funeral arrangements before she books her ticket to come home.”
“Okay,” I said, wholly unsurprised by that bit of information.
Ava was my eldest sister. As soon as she graduated high school, she’d hightailed it to New York City, where she attended some fancy design school, graduated, and stepped into a seemingly glamorous job my mother loved to brag about. From what I gathered over the very few conversations we’d had about the subject, Ava got up super early, worked at a desk all day, then drank wine with clients all evening before going to bed and doing it all over again the next day. Six, sometimes seven days a week. She dutifully went home for Thanksgiving and Christmas but otherwise insisted she didn’t have time to visit our parents.
The first time Darkheaven played a show in New York, I’d texted her, offering her tickets. She replied that she preferred country music, and besides, she was working whatever night I would be in town.
We didn’t get along quite as terribly as my mother and I, but we clearly weren’t tight.
“Maria and Vic, of course, have been to the house to express their condolences and offer whatever assistance I need.”
Maria was the middle child. She hadn’t strayed far from the nest. She went to college in Seattle, met a nice boy—well, a man, really; Vic was quite a few years older than her—got married, moved back to Roma, had a baby, and now she was building her career as a soccer mom who dutifully lunched with our mother once a week and, by all appearances, loved her life.
Maria was Mom’s favorite. Ava was a reasonably placed second choice.
I was probably not even in the will.
“Why must you make everything so difficult?” Mother demanded.
“What am I doing?” I yelped.
“You are giving me no information. I have no idea when you plan to come home. If you even plan to.”
Those were fighting words, because the woman knew damn well how close I was to my grandmother. Grandma used to tell me that my mother was jealous of the relationship she and I had, but I’d never believed her. If my mother wanted a decent relationship with me, all she had to do was try.
“I’m already here. We took a red-eye last night. We’re staying in an Airbnb about fifteen minutes outside of town.”
“We?”
I winced. I should have chosen my words with more care.
“You did not bring some long-haired, tattooed hoodlum, did you? You are not planning to take this person to the funeral.”
Lucas: longish, dirty blond hair that was always slightly messy in a highly sexy way. Tattoos snaking down his arms and over one shoulder onto his back. The band’s logo scrawled across his chest. He had ink on his calf and left ankle too. A silver barbell stabbed through one of his eyebrows.
But hoodlum didn’t fit. While his parents’ careers weren’t exactly corporate, they’d done well for themselves, and on top of that, they’d managed to create a loving, secure home environment.
Something my parents had irrevocably failed at.
Lucas may have rebelled at some point along the way, but as far as I was aware, he hadn’t done anything illegal. All he’d done was realize his dream of becoming a rock star.
Not that I could explain any of this to my mother. Rather, not that she’d ever listen. And then agree with me.
My mother’s idea of propriety was highly important to her. The image her family portrayed to the local community was even more important than her relationship with her children. Well, one of them.
Tattooed and long-haired, even if he wasn’t a hoodlum, was not the right image.
Neither was tattooed, pierced, slutty-dressing daughter.
