* * *
A few weeks later, Cal’s at the grocery store when his mother calls.
He’s in the bread aisle, trying to find that low-carb, low-calorie cardboard that Anya prefers, but he doesn’t remember the brand. All he remembers is that the bag it comes in has an orange rabbit-bear-pig mascot thing on the bottom. He’s picking up loaves to peek at their undersides when the phone rings.
He sees the contact name and answers in a rush: “What happened? What is it? Who is it?”
There’s a heartbeat of pause from the end, during which he dies a little, and then she says, “Nothing. No one. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
He exhales, leaning a hip against a display that is, thankfully, sturdier than it looks. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her voice is thinner than he remembers. Wispier. Could be age. He does some quick math. It’s been almost seven years since the last time they spoke, during that disastrous Ninth Step phone call, so she would be almost seventy. He’s getting old enough now to know that it doesn’t take nearly as much time to start feeling it as he thought it would back in his twenties, and once it starts, the symptoms of aging are like a snowball rolling down a damn mountain.
Or maybe it’s his imagination. Maybe she always sounded like this and he never noticed because everything about her was so familiar. Back then, anyway. He supposes that they would best be called strangers now.
He’s lost the thread of the conversation, spun by the shock, and has to think back to what she said. “No, it’s fine.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence. Then he says, “Uh. Hi.”
“Hi.”
Another moment of silence. “Was there—uh. Did you need? Um—”
She interrupts, sounding hurried. “How are you?”
He glances around the grocery store, perplexed. The aisle looks sort of plastic suddenly, surreal. Like he’s on a movie set or something. “I’m good.”
“Really?” There’s a long hesitation, and he closes his eyes for a second, already knowing what’s coming. In the interest of efficiency, he doesn’t bother waiting for her to say it.
He lowers his voice even more because the last thing he needs is someone overhearing. “Yes, I’m still sober.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you did. But it’s fine.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Mom. It’s fine. I don’t blame you for asking.” He tries to say it gently. He even mostly means it.
She sighs. “Good. Okay. Good. Sorry.”
“You and dad are good? Healthy?”
“Your dad has diabetes,” she says.
His knees go weak. “Is he—he’s—is it bad?”
“It’s well-controlled. He doesn’t like the diet, but you know how he is.”
His father has always been a big believer that vegetables were only put on a plate to keep the gravy from your mashed potatoes from getting all over your steak. “How’s he dealing with the diagnosis?”
Yet another long pause. “He’s—he was diagnosed a few years ago. He’s fine. It’s only—you asked after his health, and that’s part of it.”
They didn’t call him. He rubs a hand over his head. He’s not sure why that surprises him. Why it hurts. Of course they didn’t call him. That’s the whole point of estrangement, after all. Not having to call. “Right.”
She clears her throat. It sounds uncomfortable. “And you? You’re healthy?”
“Yeah.” He glances around the store again. The lights seem really bright and fake today. “I run every day.”
“How’re your knees?”
He laughs softly. “Getting a little temperamental these days, if I’m honest.”
“Maybe you could switch out a few days a week with something low-impact.”
“I’ve been thinking about cycling, but I don’t know if I really want to do it.”
“I have a friend who cycles. Well. The exercise bike. She likes it though. You probably would too. What’s keeping you from trying?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t ridden a bicycle in... God, decades. All I need is to fall and break my face in front of someone who has their phone out. The internet would love that.”
“Oh. Right. Maybe...uh, rock climbing?”
“Rock climbing?”
“It’s good for your arms, I’d suppose.”
What are they even talking about? “You always used to say that rock climbers were taking their lives in their hands.”
“You seemed to think it was interesting, though,” she says, tone going defensive.
“Yeah, but you said no.” He distinctly remembers a conversation they had back when he was a Boy Scout, when his troop was going to a climbing gym and she wouldn’t sign the permission slip. “You said it was dangerous.”
“I’m sure that the equipment is very safe—”
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Why?”
She makes a sound then that has him gripping the casing of his phone tighter. He’s opening his mouth to ask if she’s okay when she says, “Because you’re my son and I don’t know you. I don’t—I don’t like this. I worry about you. I suppose you don’t believe me, but I do.”
He rubs his forehead again. “I believe you.”
“All right.”
“Why now, though?”
“No particular reason.”
“Right.”
“There isn’t,” she insists.
He gives up. He’s never won an argument with her in his life. Not much point in trying now. “Okay.”
“How’s work?”
“It’s fine.”
“And Zac?” she asks uncertainly, as if she doesn’t know if she’s remembering Zac’s name right, which is ridiculous, because she’s met Zac multiple times. Then he realizes why she’s hesitant—she isn’t sure that Cal and Zac are still friends as well as bandmates. She must think that Cal’s drinking probably torched that relationship too.
He’s kind of tempted to laugh. There’s an irony in her concern when he’s pretty sure he’s going to be receiving a proposal this coming weekend. Zac and Anya have been whispering behind their hands a lot lately, giving him innocent faces, walking out of the room to answer phone calls where he can’t hear. Anya keeps asking him if carnations are really and truly his favorite flower, keeps telling him how disappointed she is in his lack of style and taste, complaining about how embarrassing it is for her to admit to a florist that yes, she does actually want carnations. Not that it’s any of Cal’s business what those carnations are for, of course.