She fucking hated it when her mother called, especially this late.  The woman was almost sixty.  She went to bed every night at eight after watching Wheel of Fortune, except on nights such as this one.  Nights like this, she seemed to enjoy calling her youngest daughter at 11 to rip apart the fragile remains of her life.  Looking at the caller ID, she felt like shit.  Not that she was debating whether or not to answer it; she knew she would.  That’s what made it worse, because if she didn’t answer, the evil speed dial button on her mother’s phone would for the next four hours repeat that goddamn ringing brain tumor to make sure she wasn’t dead.

Sometimes Mary wished she were.  Not in the suicidal, end it all on a post-it kind of wishing, just so she wouldn’t have to feel like everything in the world was her fault for two hours.  It was her fault her entire family and ex-husband had blacklisted her.  It was her fault her father had died “before his time”, since apparently he was a saint.  It was her fault her mother was even awake at 11.  It was her fault people were dying in Iraq.

The truth was, it probably was all her fault.  By the time she had come out of her depressed, medicated, uncaring trance, her family had given up trying, and her husband had already served her with papers and gotten engaged to a 24 year old blonde thing with a rather large stomach.  Her father had never been the same since the accident; he didn’t talk to her, or anyone for that matter.  His fourth stroke in as many months was his last; he hadn’t wanted her to visit after the second.  It was probably more her sisters’ decision, but it didn’t really matter.  And yes, it was her fault her mother was awake.  How could someone be expected to sleep when her husband of 35 years was dead and the only daughter with her life not on track had actually derailed the sane train?  The jury was still out on her involvement in Iraq.

The torturous contraption in her hand was on the fourth ring, two more and the machine would pick up.

“Hi mom.”

“Hello dear.  Sorry to call so late, I couldn’t sleep.  Thought I’d see what my baby girl was up to.”

“Oh nothing, just finishing up my last line of coke and washing it down with a bottle of Chianti, how was your day?”  The momentary silence made her smirk a little, but her mother never let things get to her so early in the conversation.

“Very funny darling, I hope it’s at least a good year.  How are the sessions going?”

Pause.  The therapy part of these little banters usually didn’t start so soon…she wanted something.  “They’re going fine, Doctor Phillips and I are making great progress.  He says I’ll be off the meds soon.”

“He said that a week ago, and the week before that.  Either he’s a shitty doctor, or you’re a bad liar…listen, sweetie…”  Here it came: Mary’s bluff had been called early in the game; the profanity was a tad bit premature; and now the question.

“…I was thinking of having a dinner party next Tuesday night.  Just me and your sisters, a few of my friends from church, you know, kind of a ladies night.  We would all love it if you came, Gwen hasn’t seen you in years, and her lovely son is recently single.”

There it was.  Bravo mother, you really played that one well.  Mary’s head started to hurt.  She hadn’t caught on in time.  The niceties, ignoring tasteless jokes, calling her a liar.  By this point in the conversation, she was feeling so shitty there was no way she was going to agree to a fucking bible thumping supper with her hateful sisters.  Her mother knew this, and as soon as Mary declined, it was again all her fault.  Every gesture would be resurrected, every kind word remembered, her mother had set her up to fail since hello, and she would feel like the Holy Virgin Mary for offering.

“I have to go mother, I’ve got another call.”

“At least think about it, will you?”

“Okay.”

She didn’t mean to hurl the phone into the wall, but she felt better for doing it.  Mary took another sip of her Chianti, wished she hadn’t been lying about the coke, and turned up the volume on the TV.  She didn’t know what she was watching, she didn’t care.  The warm blanket was the only comfort known to her as the couch accepted her weary body.  The bed down the hall hadn’t been unmade in weeks, the voice of Leno or Letterman usually carried her to sleep.  The conversation played over in her head, but pretty soon it blended with all the other ones, and she couldn’t think straight.  As her eyes fluttered closed, an obligatory apology crept into her brain.  Sorry about Iraq America, I’ll make it up to you.  Dinner Tuesday?

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