Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty- Eight
Each shrill ring of my phone crushed another layer of my happy vibes.
When it stopped, silence engulfed the room, and squeezed the life out of me.
I jumped when my phone rang a second time.
Staring at the screen, I counted the rings. Eight. Nine. Ten.
It took forever to stop.
Mother would make a great stalker.
The phone rang again, and I cursed myself for not turning it off.
Four. Five. Six . She would never stop.
I snatched up the phone and jabbed the green button. “How did you get my number?”
“Daisy, oh thank God.” Her wheezing breath was exactly as I remembered. And exactly how it should have been, after decades of whisky, cigarettes, and marijuana abuse.
“How did you get this number?” I repeated.
“I . . . I saw a photo of you on Facebook. You were with two lovely blonde women by a waterfall. You looked so happy.”
I wanted to scream. That was my fault. I’d forgotten to remind Tiffany not to tag me. I was a fool. I shouldn’t have let her even take that photo.
“Are you there? Daisy?”
“Have you been stalking me?”
“No. I’ve been searching for you.”
“That’s stalking, Mother.” I jabbed the pencil at the paper so hard it snapped in two.
“Don’t be so dramatic. I was just trying to find my daughter.”
“Why? What do you want?”
“Oh, Daisy, please don’t be like that, darling. I’m sick.”
“You’re always sick.”
“No, this time I really am. I have . . . I have . . .” She burst into tears.
I’d seen mother produce enough fake tears to warrant arc-building. Refusing to fall for her pathetic act, I put the phone on speaker and strode toward the fridge.
Mother’s disgusting sniffles and sobbing lasted long enough for me to forage a wine bottle from the back, pluck a wine glass from the sink drainer, and fill the hope-offering chalice to the brim. I dragged myself back to the table and plonked down on the chair.
After a large gulp of sauvignon blanc, I forced my tongue to release the words I’d been holding back. “What, Mother? What is it you supposedly have?”
She inhaled a shaky breath. “I have cancer. Breast cancer. It’s bad.”
I could list about two dozen occasions when my mother had made claims that she’d had cancer.
“Daisy, are you there? Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.” She’d never been diagnosed, but Mother would be a prime candidate for Munchausensyndrome. Using fake illnesses was one of her most successful tactics for getting men into her bed.
“I need you to come home. To look after me. I don’t have anyone else.”
I wanted to scream down the phone and tell her that was her own fault. She was alone because she deserved to be. Mother had pushed every single person who cared for her away, including me and the man I’d called Dad for fourteen years.
“Daisy. Say something.”
A dozen blunt responses came to mind, not one of them nice.
After another gulp of wine, I was able to articulate at least one of those thoughts. “Mother, do you know how many times I’ve heard you tell people you have cancer?”
“But it’s different?—”
“Shush.”
Mother gasped. I’d never done that to her before.
“Dozens of times. Breast cancer. Bowel cancer. Skin cancer. You name it, you’ve had it. Every single time it was a lie.”
“I know. I was a terrible person. But this time it’s true. Daisy, please, I need you. You’re the only family I have.”
I drained the glass and plonked it on the table. “Well, you know what? After living through a lifetime of your lies, I’m never going near you again. Now leave me alone.” Clenching my jaw until it hurt, I jabbed the end-call button.
Silence screamed in my ears as I leaned forward and placed my head in my hands. Squeezing my eyes shut, I willed the images of my mother playing across my mind to dissipate.
I saw her laughing as she sat on the lap of a man who was a complete stranger to me .
I saw her dancing barefoot in the sand with flowers in her hair.
I saw her passed out on a decrepit lounge with a needle in her arm.
My phone dinged, and when I saw the picture of my mother on the screen, it shot to the top of the worst image I’d ever seen of her.
Her eyes no longer shimmered with her rebellion. The bags under her eyes were dark, puffy pillows. Her gaunt cheeks looked like they’d been vacuumed in with liposuction.
Mother was holding a sheet of paper.
Despite all my resolve to delete the photo, I did not.
With shaking fingers, I zoomed in.
It was a doctor’s letter dated two months ago. By the time I’d read to the bottom line, tears nipped at my eyes.
My mother had category-five breast cancer. She’d been given approximately eight to nine months to live.
But I didn’t care. I was not going to her. She could rot in hell.
She’d done nothing but lie to me my entire life. She’d used me. Betrayed me. Stolen from me.
A message pinged on my phone. Roman. He’d sent a photo of him and a man who I assumed was his father saluting with a glass of yellow liquid that had to be limoncello. He looked so happy. They both did. Father and son. Parent and child. I didn’t know of a single photo my mother and I had with us looking like that . . . with us happy.
I’ve never known real happiness. I'd thought I was happy with William, but that had turned out to be bullshit too.
Maybe this last month was all a lie as well. A cruel hint at what happiness could be. But that was all it was—a couple of fleeting, positive moments in a lifetime of lies.
Roman loved his parents. I wonder what he’d think about me refusing to help Mother .
He’d probably suggest I make amends. He was a nice guy like that.
Clutching the wine bottle, I refilled my glass.
I flicked from the smiling faces of Roman and his dad to the sickly pale face of my mother. Did she deserve a second chance?
Everyone deserved a second chance, right? Wasn’t that the right thing to do?
But I’d given Mother hundreds of chances. All she did was lie. Lie. Lie. And lie again. After last time, I’d finally said no more .
She was the painful ulcer I’d cut from my life four years ago.
But that doctor’s letter didn’t lie. Her gaunt face didn’t lie. She really was sick.
I flicked back to the photo of Roman, studying his smile.
He needed my help to get over his ex. And we’d have fun too.
I gulped the wine and glanced at my extraordinary list of firsts.
Just when my life had taken a turn for the better, and I was beginning to feel good about myself and my ridiculous body, Mother had lobbed back in like a misery grenade shattering every fun vibe I had to smithereens.
Picking up my list, I read all twenty-five experiences again. What I’d done this month was life-altering. I’d changed. The darkness clouding my emotions had dissolved. I had so much more to discover. Europe and her men were waiting for me.
I wanted to savor my last few months in Europe.
I wanted to help Roman.
My mother wanted to ruin everything. Like she always did.
But could I live with myself if I didn’t go to her? She’s the only family I have. Going to her would be the right thing to do.
Oh God. What am I going to do?
Continue Daisy’s smoking hot, discovery tour with Roman in SINFUL TEMPTATIONS
You may also be interested in Kendall’s other steamy romantic comedy series - Stilettos and Secrets. Follow Jane’s quest for love, one smoking-hot dare at a time, featuring many swoon-worthy hunks and a quirky heroine who gave up on men when her ex-fiancé crushed her heart. TOUCH ME , is BOOK ONE in the Stilettos and Secrets series - full of forbidden steamy moments, hilarious banter and a heroine who is learning how to love herself again.
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