Hockey With Benefits(22)

She burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Just nothing that indicates I need luck. I’m not one of those guys.”

“Okay. So for tomorrow, win, sucker.”

“That’s better.”

“All right. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Win, sucker.

I liked that a lot.

My phone buzzed when I was heading inside.

I read the text as I got on the elevator and started laughing.

Mara: Win or be my bitch on Sunday.

Me: That’s like a bribe not to win. Do better.

Mara: Getting used to the amending treaty here. I’ll do better tomorrow.

Me: You better.

Mara: Win, fucker.

I was still laughing when I got to the room.





12





MARA





She started calling Saturday morning.

I didn’t recognize the number, but the foreboding feeling in my gut told me it was her.

And it was a little after four in the morning. 4:03.

It kept ringing.

I kept staring at it, curled up in bed, unable to look away and a second later, my phone lit up again.

I should answer. I started the same thoughts I always did. It might not be her.

It might be Dad.

Maybe Dad was in an accident?

Maybe she was in an accident?

Maybe it was her and she really did need my help?

Was she bleeding right now? Had she cut herself?

Again?

Was she in the hospital again?

If she was in prison, if she was in Vegas and ran out of money, if a guy just fucked her and she didn’t know his name… Those I didn’t care about. But there was one question, one that I hadn’t asked anyone because no one could give me the answer–that’s the one I answered the call for.

“Mom,” I said it quietly, my voice hoarse. “What you were in the hospital for, did you really try to do it?”

She gasped on the other end, and then a hoarse whisper, “Baby. Oh, baby.” Her voice started trembling. She began to cry. “Oh, my beautiful baby girl. You answered. I heard you came to the hospital. I’m so happy you did. I’m so sorry your father kept you away. He shouldn’t have done that, kept my daughter away from her mama. A girl needs to see her mama. Oh, Mara honey. Beautiful Mara. How are you?”

She wasn’t answering.

She went from sad to rushed to angry to frenzied to gushing and she ended with a question that I knew she didn’t care about. Because of that, I didn’t answer and without waiting for an answer, she rushed forward, “Can you believe this shit your father is trying to pull? Baby. Baby, I need your help. You owe me that. I pushed you out of my pussy, didn’t throw you in the trash, not like what your father told me to do.” A hard laugh from her. “I bet he’s never told you that, but it’s true and you know what would’ve happened if I’d done that? I would’ve had a life. I wouldn’t have gained those six pounds. Six up, six down. My tits are sagging. I was talking to a guy inside. He’s in for drugs, but he’s a surgeon. He said he could fix my tits and he could tighten my pussy. I think I’m going to do it. Listen, where are you? I wanted to come and take you out for dinner. My friend, Marshall, he’s the surgeon, he’s getting out in ten days, and he said he’d take me out for a weekend. You want to come with us? I bet he could do something for you too. Fix those cheek lines. Freshen your face up. He could give you some ass.” Now she was laughing. “A little fat back there–”

She wasn’t going to answer.

“Mom.”

She was still going. She hadn’t heard me.

Talking about all the features the surgeon could help me with, because she cared, because she was looking out for me, because a daughter represented her, but I couldn’t screw him. She chuckled, her voice dropping low, “I mean, if you wanted to, you could. Maybe you should? Get a sugar daddy. But no threesome business. I mean–”

“Mom–”

She ignored me. “You think he might pay for a threesome? Some mother-daughter action–”

I couldn’t. Not anymore.

I hung up, and like I did with all the new numbers she called me from, I blocked this new one.

Her old number was already blocked.

I went through all of my media and deleted every single one but goddamn. If she searched my name, it’d still pop up.

Wouldn’t it?

I couldn’t risk it.

Once I was done, I did a google search for my name and went through every hit that gave any identifying information about me. I searched, found where to have it taken down.

And right after I was done, two hours later, my stomach revolted.

I sprinted from the bed, getting to the toilet just in time to empty whatever had been inside.

I stopped puking after six times; the last four were only bile.

It was later, when I was curled up by the toilet with a blanket over me that I started going over the call with a clearer head and this was the first time I thought the doctors got it right, or one of them did. A new diagnosis was probably correct. She’d escalated.

She was harder.





I stayed in on Saturday. Sometimes I sought people out or parties, but it was different on Saturday. I couldn’t explain it. I just wanted silence. My own space.