21. Julia
Julia
Saturday morning arrives with the kind of clear, ordinary sunlight that feels almost insulting after everything I did in front of my living-room window the night before.
I wake later than usual, warm beneath the comforter and aware almost immediately that I slept straight through the night.
There had been no three-in-the-morning inventory of whether I locked the doors, no sudden awakening because the house made one of the harmless noises houses make when temperatures change, and no lying in the dark while my brain dragged out something embarrassing I said twelve years ago and demanded an emergency review. Just sleep. Deep, uninterrupted sleep.
The memory of why I went to bed feeling so wrung out arrives a few seconds later.
The lamp burning behind me. My reflection against the glass.
The dark stretch of trees beyond it. My hand between my thighs while I looked for a man I knew was somewhere out there, watching because I had deliberately told him he could.
Heat creeps into my face even though I am alone.
I pull the comforter over my head for approximately five seconds before deciding that suffocating myself probably qualifies as an overreaction.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” My voice sounds muffled beneath the covers, but saying it aloud doesn’t make the memory any less real.
The embarrassing part is not that I did it, it’s that I don’t regret doing it.
I understand how completely insane the situation is without needing Kai Blackwood to point it out with that patient expression of his.
There is an anonymous man watching my house, leaving letters on my porch and learning things about me I never consciously offered him.
Somewhere along the way, I allowed myself to choose the more dangerous situation of performing the act of masturbation for my stalker than entertain the possibility of having an actual man like Michael in my life.
The contrast and the absurdity of my choices are not lost on me.
Apparently dangerous and hot is something I am more inclined to take my chances on than an office affair that has far less life threatening outcome.
I should really consider asking Kai for medication.
My phone starts vibrating, making me jump in bed and my stomach gives one ridiculous little flip before common sense catches up and reminds me that Ghost communicates through black stationery and wax seals, not phone calls.
The screen says Nanna. Everything in me softens. I answer before it can vibrate again.
“Hey, Nanna.”
Her laugh comes through slightly rough, the familiar rasp catching at the back of her throat before she clears it. “Did I wake you, my sweet?”
I smile into the pillow and roll onto my side, tucking one hand beneath my cheek. “No, I woke up a while ago.”
“And now you’re just lying there, resting.” She says, sounding pleased with herself for knowing my weekend morning habits better than anyone.
“Exactly. What’s new with you?”
Nanna starts telling me about a television presenter whose haircut has apparently offended her on a deeply personal level.
I have no idea who the woman is, but that doesn’t matter because Nanna has decided the hair is “obviously a wig,” because no one on TV has real hair.
I’ve heard her say that so many times before but I listen to it again, anyway.
I would listen to that voice read instruction manuals if she wanted me to.
Over the last couple of years, the rasp has become more noticeable in the mornings, and she occasionally has to pause between sentences to clear her throat.
Mom finds it irritating when she is already in a bad mood. I never have.
For most of my childhood, that voice meant safety before I even understood what safety was supposed to feel like.
It meant toast cut diagonally because Nanna insisted it tasted better, homework spread across her kitchen table while she pretended not to know the answers so I could explain them to her, and being allowed to talk about a boy at school without the conversation turning into a warning about sex, betrayal or becoming like my father.
With Nanna, I got to be little. Even now, some part of me still does.
Her story about the fake hair eventually runs out of momentum, and I hear the faint clink of ceramic before she speaks again. “So, what are you doing today?”
“Nothing worth reporting. Laundry, probably. I was thinking about cleaning the bathroom cabinet before some of the products in there qualify for museum status.”
“You work all week. Sit down.”
“I’m currently horizontal.”
“Good,” she says with immediate approval. “Stay that way.”
“I think eventually somebody will report me missing.”
“Tessa will find you.”
A laugh escapes me. “Tessa has no respect for locked doors, so that’s probably true.”
Nanna laughs too, but the sound breaks into a small cough afterward.
My smile fades slightly. “You okay?”
“I’m ninety-four, Julia. Everything I do has a sound effect now.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Her tone changes so subtly that another person might have missed it, the humor thinning as she takes a small breath before responding.
“Yes, I’m fine. My throat is just dry this morning.”
I sit up against the headboard. There is something beneath the answer. There usually is when she starts reassuring me before I have actually expressed concern.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Nanna.”
She sighs, and there is enough resignation in the sound that I already know whose name is coming next. “Your mother was in a particular mood this morning.”
Of course she was.
I push my hair away from my face and straighten a little more against the pillows. “What kind of mood?”
“The usual kind.” Nanna tries to make the answer casual, but I can hear the smile she is forcing into her voice. “Apparently my coffee cups have migrated to the wrong cupboard, and my voice is especially offensive today.”
My jaw tightens. “What did she say?”
“Julia, don’t start.”
“I haven’t started anything,” I tell her, keeping my own voice calmer than I feel. “I’m asking what happened.”
“She’s tired. You know how she gets when she’s tired.”
Unfortunately, I do. Mom becomes irritated by tiny things when she needs somewhere to put whatever she is carrying.
A drawer closes too loudly. Nanna asks a question twice.
The kitchen isn’t clean enough. Her rasp is suddenly too much to listen to.
None of those things are actually the problem, but they become the target.
Nanna begins making excuses almost immediately, telling me Mom has a lot going on and probably didn’t mean half of what she said, which only irritates me more because I know exactly how these conversations work.
“Did she yell at you?” There is a pause that makes me close my eyes. “Nanna.”
“She raised her voice.”
“About coffee cups?”
“Among other things.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the comforter. “Do you want me to call her?”
“No.” Her answer is immediate now, firmer than anything else she has said in the last few minutes. “And before you say you’re going to anyway, I’m telling you not to.”
“She doesn’t get to use you as a punching bag because she’s having a bad morning.”
“I’m aware.”
“She acts like you’re deliberately inconveniencing her by being ninety-four.”
“She’s my daughter. I survived raising her, didn’t I?”
Despite myself, I smile. “That doesn’t mean she gets to be a brat.”
A small laugh comes through the phone. “I told her to go home.”
My eyebrows rise.
“You did?”
Nanna sounds almost offended by my surprise. “I’m old, not helpless.”
We spend another fifteen minutes talking about things that don’t matter, which is exactly what I want.
She tells me one of her neighbors is flirting with a widower six years younger and acting as though she has committed a felony, and I tell her I fully support whatever scandalous retirement-home romance may be developing.
Before we hang up, I make her promise to call if she needs anything.
Nanna exhales dramatically. “You need to stop running every time one of us has a bad day.”
“You’re ninety-four. I’m allowed.”
“You have a life.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Go live it.” There is no accusation hidden beneath the instruction, and that is the difference I always notice with her. She means it.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call ends, leaving me staring at the screen for another second before I finally climb out of bed.
I make it downstairs, start coffee and have barely taken my first sip when my phone rings again. This time the name on the screen makes my stomach sink.
Mom.
For several seconds, I simply watch it ring. I could let it go to voicemail. The fact that the possibility even occurs to me feels like evidence of something changing, because not long ago I would have answered immediately while inventing six different emergencies she might be calling about.
I answer anyway. “Hey.”
“What are you doing?” No hello.
I lean one hip against the counter and cradle the mug between both hands. “Making coffee.”
“At this hour?”
I glance toward the clock. “It’s Saturday.”
“I’ve been up since six.” Something about the way she says it makes the statement sound less like information and more like evidence in a case I wasn’t aware we were arguing.
“Congratulations?” I wince slightly, although I’m not sorry enough to take it back.
Silence follows.
“I had a thing with Nanna’s this morning,” she says after a moment.
“I know.”
Her tone changes immediately, sharpening with suspicion. “She called you already?”
“We talk, Mom.”
“I know you talk.” The emphasis she puts on talk makes it sound like the two of us are conspiring against her instead of occasionally having phone conversations.
I take another sip of coffee and wait.
“She was impossible this morning.”
I lower the mug. “How was she impossible?”