Page 76 of Dolls & Daggers
My phone rings, startling me so abruptly I nearly stab the back of my throat with my toothbrush. Iexpect it to be Dove again, even though we already said goodnight, or maybe Hunter checking in. But when my mother’s name flashes across the screen, all the tension that melted in the shower returns tenfold.
Each shrill ring tightens my chest. The feeling of a thousand insects skitter across my limbs.
It’s like an out-of-body experience as I answer her call for the first time in months.
“Oh! I finally got you, my little songbird!”
Songbird.
Vomit rises in my throat, bitter against the minty foam of the toothpaste, when she uses the nickname I only want to hear from Dove’s lips. I screw my eyes shut as memories flood the graveyard in my mind where I’ve buried them for so long.
A warm wetness where it shouldn’t be. “It’s okay, my little songbird. Mommy’s going to make you feel good.”
Frantic cries of embarrassment as she coos, “It’s okay, Songbird. It’s a perfectly normal thing for your body to do.”
“Kiss me now, Songbird! Just like I taught you!”
“Wrenley?”
The room snaps back into focus. Panic surges through me. I clear my throat and press the mute button. Acrid bile mixes with sharp spearmint, and I vomit as she squeals, “Mommy misses you, sweetie. How are you? How’s New York?”
It takes a moment to compose myself after spilling my stomach into the sink. I hate that my body reacts so violently to just the sound of her voice, how a single word drags up everything I’ve tried to lock away. A name that once made my skin crawl—until Dove turned it into something sacred.
After a deep breath, I unmute the phone. “I’m back in California. I’ll be stopping by tomorrow.”
Another squeal. I press my palm into my temple, trying to block out the throbbing that begins at her cries of joy. “Oh, baby boy! You have no idea how happy that makes me! Why aren’t you here yet? Where are you? You’re alone, right?”
The familiar warning edge sharpens her last question. I was never allowed to date, never permitted to show interest in a girl without my mother making thinly veiled threats about telling everyone what a disgusting little boy I was. She always said no one would believe me if she saidIforced myself onher.
She always said men aren’t victims, that women will always be believed over them.
I wasn’t willing to take that chance in high school. Even in college, I was careful never to tell her my whereabouts.
“Yeah. It’s just me.” I keep my answers short. “I’m staying nearby. I’ll be there tomorrow in the late afternoon.”
There’s a pause so thick with suspicion I can feel it through the phone. “Why didn’t you come home, Wrenley?”
“Late-night work call,” I lie, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “Hunter says hello, by the way.”
It’s a warning.
An indirect way of saying someone knows where I am. Someone expects me back in New York.
Her voice hardens. I can picture her gritting her teeth, her fake smile faltering as she speaks through them. “Well, tell him I say hello, too. I’ll see you tomorrow then, my little songbird. I’m so happy you’ve come home.”
She hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. And for some reason, her parting words feel final—like I’ve come to stay.
Or like she doesn’t plan to let me go again.
I toss and turn all night, debating whether to call Dove regardless of the late hour, just to hear her voice.
In the end, I decide against it, and I don’t sleep worth a damn.
Nothing has changedsince I left.
The old two-bedroom house still needs a paint job, but the multitude of flower pots and various-colored blooms in the garden beds out front manage to make the chipped cream exterior look warm and cozy.
My mother’s Camry sits in front of the ostentatious red garage. The color always made me feel like the house was a target—a giant bullseye. A complete contradiction to the rest of the aesthetic.
