Page 17 of You Might Be Bad for Me

She was tough and she showed me how to survive being this way.

But now she’s gone and I’m here all alone.

The click of the air conditioner is met with the curtains swaying. They’re bright white with bluebirds scattered across them. This is the only area in the entire house that’s decorated; it’s supposedly the dining room, but the table that came with the sparsely furnished place is strangely small for such a large room. And I don’t have any desire to put in any effort anywhere else. I can’t stand to be here any longer than I need to be.

At that thought, I head to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

The electric kettle is Grandmom’s too. Another reminder.

The plants, the tea ... well, maybe that’s it.

Standing at the laminate countertop, I look around the mostly empty kitchen. I don’t even have cutlery. But that’s okay, I don’t think I’ll be staying here long. “I brought your plants, though,” I say out loud like a fucking lunatic. Does it make it any better if I know I’m unwell? I tell myself it’s for the plants. Talking out loud to my dead grandmother is so the plants can grow. Yeah … okay.

The kettle beeps and the light goes off, so I go about my business. Tea and then research. I pause after pouring the hot water into the porcelain cup, remembering Dean.

He’s definitely a man who leaves an impression. I smile into the tea, drinking it unsweetened and loving the warmth as it flows through my chest. Dean’s also a wanted distraction.

“You’d hate him, Grandmom,” I say with my eyes closed. “Or maybe not,” I say then shrug and remember how she gave me the advice to get over one man by getting under another. It was only a joke to her but I think she was onto something.

With each sip of tea, I think about Dean. His large, strong hands. The way he likes to pretend he’s not wound tightly when it’s obvious he is. The hot tea is a soothing balm, but getting rid of this wound called Dean requires more than a mere hot drink. I should know.

Just as I’m starting to relax, just as I feel a bit sane, my phone rings in the living room. My pace is slow, and all the good feelings are replaced with ice.

There’s only one person who calls me and I don’t want to talk to her. I will, but all she’ll get are the pieces of me that remain. The remnants of who I used to be. She made her choice, and now we both have to deal with it.

I take my time tossing the used tea bag into the trash, where it hits an empty box of hair dye. I absently twist the brunette curl dangling in my face around my finger as I walk to my phone. I don’t want to look like the girl I once was. I don’t want to be her anymore. Dyeing my hair helps.

“Hello,” I answer the phone, setting the cup down on the floor and sitting cross-legged to look out the sliding doors at the back of the house.

“You answered.” My mother sounds surprised, and maybe she should be. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her voice.

“What’s going on, Mom?” I ask her, feeling a sense of loneliness I haven’t felt in a while. Maybe it’s not the anger that keeps me at a distance from her. Maybe it’s just because she’s a reminder of what happened.

“I wanted to let you know I bought you a sofa.” Her voice has a feigned sense of happiness to it. Like she can pretend we’re okay and one day we’ll be back to normal. “I need your address so I can send it. And a TV stand too. And if you need anything else …”

“Mom, you didn’t have to do that,” I tell her simply. It hurts when I talk to her. Physically hurts. Because I still love her, but I hate her too. I can’t forgive myself and she’s the one who led me down that path. I’d rather hate her than hate myself.

“I wanted to, and I know that you quit working when … she passed away four months ago, so money must be tight. If you need any …” my mother falters then continues, “I don’t know what you have saved, but I can send you—”

“I’m fine.” I hated that job at the bakery anyway. It was just killing time and numbing the truth of what I needed to do. It’s not like I was going anywhere running the register.

“Will you let me send them to you?” she asks me and it’s the anguish in her voice that makes me cave.

It’s not that I want to hurt my mother. I know she’s in pain like I am. I just don’t want to be around her. I don’t want to forgive her because then it would be like what happened was okay.

And it never will be. Never.

“Sure, I’ll text my address to you,” I agree mostly out of guilt.

“Thank you,” she says, and I think she’s crying on the other end of the phone.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

“I just miss you; I miss your grandmother too.”

“I miss her too … She’s in a better place now.” I say the words, but I don’t mean them. They’re only for my mother’s benefit. If it wasn’t for my grandmother’s death, I’m not sure my mother and I would even have a relationship. It’s been six years of hardly saying a word to each other. For most of them, I lived under her roof. Both of us keeping busy and ignoring each other.

I remember when I started sneaking out how she pretended I wasn’t.

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