Rule #9 by Sheri Duff
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
My mom continues to send me daily texts. They’re not enough. I need to hear her voice. I place a call to her at two in the morning, London time. She’s trying to give my dad and me uninterrupted time alone in hopes that we’ll heal. She knows me. But I also know my mom better than anyone.
I’ve researched the time difference between Colorado and London. At two in the morning she won’t think straight—she can’t—especially while she’s away. She works overtime and sleeps little. If the phone rings in the middle of the night, she’ll worry that there’s an issue with either with me or work. And she’ll worry even more that there may be something wrong with me.
“Yes. Hello.” Her words are slurred and sleepy.
“Mom.” There’s relief in my voice.
“Massie.” Now her voice sounds worried.
“Sorry, Mom, I had to call you.” I lie on her bed and spray her perfume on one of her pillows. The spice, without the minerals of her skin, smells different, but it still soothes me. “I needed to hear your voice. I know you’re avoiding me, forcing me to give this crazy new family a chance.”
“Is it working?” Her voice is more relaxed.
“Yes, I’m giving in a little. And they aren’t that bad.”
“See, I told you.”
“Dad’s still an idiot.”
She doesn’t comment. We talk for an hour. I fill her in on everything, including Jack. She doesn’t like that she’s missing out on this. She has to approve of all the boys I date before I can go out with them.
“It’s not my fault you abandoned me,” I say.
“Strong words.” The tone of her voice is calling my bluff.
“It’s all good, Mom. I told him that he still needs your approval.”
“Does he have manners?” She asks.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Does he complain?”
“No, Mom.”
“Does he like Power Rangers?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“You better find out. How about orange, does he like the color orange?”
“I think so, but it’s the wrong orange. He’s a Bengals fan.”
“Okay. Is he nice?” She doesn’t care about football.
“Yes, Mom, he’s very nice.”
My mom’s questions stem from a list I wrote when I was in first grade. What I didn’t want in a boy and what I did want in a boy. She still has the list tucked in a frame in her office. My mom said that my simple list from when I was seven years old made sense then and, for the most part, makes sense now. It weeds out most dirtbags, anyway. I always forget to use it.
What I don’t want in a boy:
1. No manners.
2. No complaining.
3. No meanies.
What I want in a boy:
1. Likes Power Rangers.
2. Kisses me after work.
3. Is nice.
4. Likes orange
5. Plays football.
6. Most of all loves me.
Before hanging up my mom says, “Love you, Massie. You are my world. I’m so proud of who you are.”
”I love you too, Mom. Hurry home. I miss you.” And while I really want her home, there is a part of me that is starting to enjoy my surroundings. Especially when they include Jack.
My mom continues to send me daily texts. They’re not enough. I need to hear her voice. I place a call to her at two in the morning, London time. She’s trying to give my dad and me uninterrupted time alone in hopes that we’ll heal. She knows me. But I also know my mom better than anyone.
I’ve researched the time difference between Colorado and London. At two in the morning she won’t think straight—she can’t—especially while she’s away. She works overtime and sleeps little. If the phone rings in the middle of the night, she’ll worry that there’s an issue with either with me or work. And she’ll worry even more that there may be something wrong with me.
“Yes. Hello.” Her words are slurred and sleepy.
“Mom.” There’s relief in my voice.
“Massie.” Now her voice sounds worried.
“Sorry, Mom, I had to call you.” I lie on her bed and spray her perfume on one of her pillows. The spice, without the minerals of her skin, smells different, but it still soothes me. “I needed to hear your voice. I know you’re avoiding me, forcing me to give this crazy new family a chance.”
“Is it working?” Her voice is more relaxed.
“Yes, I’m giving in a little. And they aren’t that bad.”
“See, I told you.”
“Dad’s still an idiot.”
She doesn’t comment. We talk for an hour. I fill her in on everything, including Jack. She doesn’t like that she’s missing out on this. She has to approve of all the boys I date before I can go out with them.
“It’s not my fault you abandoned me,” I say.
“Strong words.” The tone of her voice is calling my bluff.
“It’s all good, Mom. I told him that he still needs your approval.”
“Does he have manners?” She asks.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Does he complain?”
“No, Mom.”
“Does he like Power Rangers?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“You better find out. How about orange, does he like the color orange?”
“I think so, but it’s the wrong orange. He’s a Bengals fan.”
“Okay. Is he nice?” She doesn’t care about football.
“Yes, Mom, he’s very nice.”
My mom’s questions stem from a list I wrote when I was in first grade. What I didn’t want in a boy and what I did want in a boy. She still has the list tucked in a frame in her office. My mom said that my simple list from when I was seven years old made sense then and, for the most part, makes sense now. It weeds out most dirtbags, anyway. I always forget to use it.
What I don’t want in a boy:
1. No manners.
2. No complaining.
3. No meanies.
What I want in a boy:
1. Likes Power Rangers.
2. Kisses me after work.
3. Is nice.
4. Likes orange
5. Plays football.
6. Most of all loves me.
Before hanging up my mom says, “Love you, Massie. You are my world. I’m so proud of who you are.”
”I love you too, Mom. Hurry home. I miss you.” And while I really want her home, there is a part of me that is starting to enjoy my surroundings. Especially when they include Jack.