“Sorry to sound skeptical, but who are you again?”
“Persy Brassard, from Life with Persy,” she repeats, and though I don’t want to believe her, I recognize her voice.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I’m taking it you haven’t listened to my show for the past month,” she says.
Well, isn’t she a little self-absorbed? And how does she know that I haven’t listened to her show? Does she keep track? This is weird. I stare at the phone, wondering if this is some kind of joke or maybe it’s a contest. I won a trip to the Caribbean with all the expenses paid. Doubtful.
“I’m probably not interested in whatever it is that you’re selling or…Why don’t we save ourselves some energy, and I just hang up?”
“Well, this is about Matilda,” she says.
All the calls I receive are about my child, so why did I think this would be different? Wait, Persy is a podcaster. Why is she involved with my child? My eyes bulge.
“Matilda, my kid? You want to discuss my daughter?”
“She sent us an email asking for advice.”
She did what?
I freeze. This has to be a nightmare. I look at my attire to make sure I’m not naked or wearing ridiculous pajamas—just a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt. There’s no audience. I’m not in the middle of the New York subway, nor am I stopping traffic because I look ridiculous. After going through all my nightmares, I realize this is live.
Oh my fucking God. That’s it. I’m disowning that kid. She’s no one to me. I take a deep calming breath because I don’t want this woman to know I’m losing my shit.
“So, you’re telling me that my child asked for advice from a sexologist?”
“No.” She coughs, trying to cover her laugh. “She called me because, according to her, I’m a love expert. She needs advice on how to find you a husband.”
“Is this some sort of prank? A new segment where you call your listeners and…what’s the deal?”
“This isn’t anything new. We always receive emails from our audience, and sometimes we discuss them on the air. Matilda’s request sounded special. It is special.”
“Please tell me we’re not live.”
“No, but we’re recording. It won’t go live unless you sign a release. Matilda is concerned about you and your happiness.”
This nonsense sounds like something my daughter would stir up. I’m shaking with anger. How can she email a stranger to ask for advice? It’s the two of us, not Matilda, Mommy, and the rest of the world.
“My former daughter is officially grounded until her eighteenth birthday. She’s going to spend some time with her grandfather. In jail. No. I’ll just take away her cell phone rights…even when she doesn’t have a phone yet.”
I gasp. What am I saying? “Sorry, I didn’t mean all that. Now you’re going to call social services and take my child away, aren’t you?”
“Not at all. You sound like my mom when my brother and I misbehaved. I hope you know that she did it because she loves you,” she assures me.
“She has no right to call you and air out my problems.”
“All she wants is for her mom to be happy. I’m sure your happiness isn’t about having a man, but maybe being able to spend more time with Matilda or having free time to take a long bath without having to worry about work, school, or your daughter. Three jobs must be exhausting.”
“Wait, how do you know I have three jobs, and I go to school?” I wish my child were here so I could glare at her.
She is in so much trouble.
“Matilda told us about it.”
“Of course, she did. Who else would be airing my life on national radio?”
“It’s a podcast, and it airs internationally.”
“Joy, I feel a lot better learning that seven billion people know my business. Why are you calling me again?”
Am I so unhappy that my daughter had to email a stranger to discuss my life? I don’t have time to be disappointed. I’m busy trying to build a life for the two of us. I’m trying my best. Apparently, I’m failing so much, she felt the need to call someone to help me with it.
“Well, every week, we’ve been talking to Matilda so we can get a sense of how we can help you and her. She mentioned you create jewelry, and we’d like to have you on the show. Maybe you can talk about your creations, how you balance motherhood with work, and the things you’d like to do if there were more hours during the day.”
I like that she’s not judging me or shoving me a husband from Hunks “R” Us. However, I’m not comfortable discussing my life with her.
“Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I have work to do.”
“We understand. Could we schedule you for another week or month? According to Matilda, Wednesdays are your days off. Though, you should take into consideration that the holidays are almost here. Maybe you could do it and get some promotion for your online shop.”
“This is…helpful but also not right. I’m not sure how to feel about this conversation. This is so…”
“Unpleasant?” She finishes my sentence, and I’m still unsure if that’s the right answer.
“Not exactly. I’m not used to talking about myself.”
“With such an extraordinary child, I can see how you only spend time discussing Matilda. However, you matter too. When was the last time you went out on a date?”
“I can’t remember, but I have my daughter to think about first.”
“Do you and Matilda go out often?”
“I’m too busy.” And maybe this is why my child felt like she needed to reach out and ask for someone’s help. Not that I approve of her method. Who emails an influencer? I swear that kid is dead.
“Listen, it might sound as if I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do. It was complicated at the beginning after Matilda’s—” I take a moment to get a hold of my emotions and swallow the knot clogging my throat.
“After Matilda’s dad died, things were difficult. It took me a little time to start again. But I got a handle on this, and I’ll continue riding the wave until it’s over, and then I’ll jump onto the next one. Isn’t that how life goes?”
There’s a long silence. Then, she says, “Are you doing something nice for yourself every day?”
I touch my hair. This counts as nice, doesn’t it? “I’m trying, but there are times when it’s almost impossible. The days only have twenty-four hours.”
“You’re right, and I also understand how some jobs don’t pay well enough, so you need to complement your income. As I told Matilda multiple times, I admire you. You’re raising a brilliant child while trying to make ends meet and getting an education. But what if there were people out here trying to give you a hand? We want to do something for you.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course.”
“Can you not air this?”
“Not at all? We could edit it or do another interview. Many listeners would love to hear from you.”
Many listeners? I hold my midriff, wondering what that means.
“Not for now. I have to think about it. This is unexpected. I never thought that Matilda would call someone and ask for help so I can get a husband or for her to get a dad.”