Pick up

Walking towards the kitchen, I see my mother by the stove, stirring the pot. She looks agitated. I pick up a glass, walk to the fridge and pour some orange juice from the jug. When I close the fridge door, I walk to the counter and jump on top.

“Your father called several times. He doesn’t stop calling,” says my mother, her back to me.

“Why did he call several times? What did he want?” He's on vacation. Did he leave something behind, like sunscreen or common sense?

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did. You just said he called several times.”

“Argh," she huffs, "you don’t understand anything I say.” She turns towards me and back to the stove. “Anyway,” she continues, “he was having lunch with your grandfather and his third wife and he wanted to know how you’re doing.” She pauses for effect and turns around. “If cared anything about him, you would ask how he’s doing.”

“How would I know how he’s doing if I never know when he calls?”

“Well, he called and he asked how you were doing and I told him you weren’t home.”

“Where was I?”

“Downstairs.”

What? He just called? That was him? It's bad enough he doesn't like to talk to me on the phone, but the one chance I have to talk to him, I can't.

“Ok, so you lie to him and tell him I’m not home and that I don’t want to talk to him. Then, you tell me that I don’t want to talk to him when I don’t even know when he calls? You’re crazy, you know that? You. Are. Crazy.”

“Don’t you say that to me!” she raises a hand at me, the other hand holding a wooden spoon.

“You’re retarded. You are so retarded. Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you actually say when you open your mouth? Do you?”

I’m not particularly angry, just astonished how she would warp words to her advantage to make others feel guilty and turn herself into the victim. Who would do such a twisted thing?

Next time, I’ll make sure to pick up the phone before she does.