Forevermore

Nineteen

My afterschool power nap is disrupted when my phone begins ringing.

Anger is my first-instinct emotion. The fifteen minutes I take for myself after a long day to just escape into the realm of sleep are crucial to my wellbeing. It's a short time, but it's really quite refreshing.

But worry kicks in next. My phone is always on Do-Not-Disturb, and the bypassers are people that don't drain my social battery. Those people also know my afternoon rituals, so if someone's calling it must be urgent.

I throw the blanket off my face–it was originally there so that I could block the light coming in through the windows–and grab my phone from just beside me.

My quickly beating heart begins to palpitate when I see the contact name.

She's the only exception to my passerby list. She drains more than just my social battery, but she's also my mother.

Mom only speaks to me when she needs to get a message to my father. Or when she's about to fly into Seattle. That thought kickstarts my anxiety even further.

I let the phone ring as I stand up and walk over to my bedroom door, pulling it open. No one is home right now–Lucas is at batting practice and Dad always goes with him to those things–so I don't have to worry about anyone hearing me when I yell, "Honey!"

It's not long before the golden retriever begins running up the stairs. He walks up to me with this happy look on his face.

I sit on the floor just outside of my bedroom and begin petting Honey. He's quickly becoming an emotional support animal of sorts. When I need to ward off temporary anxiety, he's the perfect tool for that.

Okay, tool is a bad word since it sounds like I'm using Honey, but if you think about it, it's sort of like a business transaction. My anxiety is replaced with dopamine–or whatever chemical it id–and Honey gets head scratches, which he so obviously enjoys.

"You're so cute," I coo. "Yes you– Stop." I abruptly pull my head back when he tries to lick my face. We haven't reached that territory yet and I doubt we ever will.

It's crazy to me that we've reached petting territory. If a few-weeks-ago-me saw myself right now, she'd probably go into cardiac arrest. Or have a seizure. Or a stroke. But I've realized recently, that I actually do like animals. I love Honey when I block out the thought that he's going to be in someone else's hands give or take a few months.

Once I hear the vibrations of my phone stop, I stand up to go back into my room. Honey follows me in and I don't stop him.

Unfortunately, that results in him jumping up onto my bed once I sit down.

"Please get off," I say in a neutral tone. Honey simply just lays down at the foot of my bed. "You are going to get germs on my bed, please get off."

He lets out one of those dog-sighs.

I do not bother arguing–if that's what you can call it–with him because really, what's the point? Instead, I pick up my phone to see a voicemail from my mom.

After inhaling and exhaling a deep breath that steadies me just enough, I open it up and listen.

"Hi Indi," my mother's raspy voice. "I was just calling to say, I got back from Madrid. My parents are good, but..."

She continues and the longer the voicemail goes on, the more stress enters my body. By the end, I'm only able to take short lived breaths.

When it ends, I set my phone down with a shaky hand.

The gist of her message was: I love you so much, you know that? You're such a good student and a good host when I stay at your house. That's why I need you to prepare the house for when I come. I'll be here on Friday– did I tell you how much I love you? Oh, and tell your dad for me. Bye! It was just a lot more wordy and filled with much more flattery.

I haven't seen my mom since June when I was invited to her engagement party celebrating her fifth marriage. I'm not sure if she's gotten married to the twenty-five year old Zachary yet, but I find it hard to care about her love life. Between the fact that she ruined her marriage with the only person who's ever treated her right and the fact that she's been married four times since him, she's obviously unhappy. A petty part of me thinks she deserves it.

I know that sounds like an awful way to think of my mother, but she's hardly a mom. In fact, she's just another topic of stress for me. I know she doesn't care about me, and she hardly cares for Lucas either. The feeling is pretty close to mutual–and I know my dad absolutely despises her. For the most part.

"Of course I love you, Paloma!" Dad's shouts were audible from just outside the bedroom. "You're the love of my life, but my children are my life. They're my world."

My body goes weak at the memory of that day.

"They're not only your children Nicholas!" Mom had said later in the argument."I carried them for nine months."

"And I don't discredit that," Dad replied. "I admire you for it and I am eternally grateful that you provided me with the most beautiful gift I could've asked for. But how you treat them after those nine months matters too! You have one last chance to prove yourself as a mother."

I wipe away the memory before sitting at my desk. My homework does just what I need it to. It distracts me from the impending doom that I get from every interaction I have with my mom.