Mulberry’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean, anything could happen?”
Before I can answer, my phone rings. The sound is muffled and Mulberry doesn’t acknowledge it. “Where is my phone?” I ask.
He sighs and heaves himself off the bed as though the interruption is killing him. But let’s not forget about my blood pressure; fighting shouldn’t be on the menu for today. And talking with Mulberry about Robert never leads to anything but fighting. Why did I even start down this road?
He comes back moments later with my phone and hands it to me. “I missed a call from my mother.” I swipe the phone open. “Make that three calls.”
“I’ll clean up,” Mulberry offers, taking my plate from the side table. “We should table this conversation anyway. I don’t want to fight with you.” Mulberry leans down and kisses my forehead.
“Watch out,” I joke. “You don’t want to make me pass out again.”
He groans and shakes his head at me. I flutter my eyelashes and he laughs. “You’re killing me,” he says as he turns to leave the room.
I take in a slow deep breath. Maybe. Everyone I love does die…and I do love the fuck out of you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
My mom picks up on the first ring. “Hi honey, how are you? I’ve been thinking so much about you? How are you feeling?”
“Good, I’m good,” I say. Blue stretches out so that his head can reach my lap. “How are you?”
“I’m doing well. We are in Charleston tonight. We have a lot of people attending—one of our biggest shows ever.” Her voice is high, could be nerves or excitement, or a combo of both. Once my mother used to barnstorm the country with her holy-rolling minister husband, preaching the Christian faith and bilking people of their hard-earned dollars. Now she’s using those same skills, without the mercenary motive, to spread the prophet’s message of female empowerment.
“I’m happy for you,” I say.
“I’m a little worried though.”
“Oh?” I ask.
“I just have a feeling. Like something bad is going to happen. Or has happened. I don’t know.”
She still doesn’t know about Rida’s death. No one has announced it. Zerzan’s been totally quiet. And the US government has not taken it upon themselves to say anything. Should I tell her? Logic starts to swirl and tumble in my mind. She will tell others, it will be letting a bull loose in a china shop. It’s not actually my place—what the fuck does that even mean? Not my place? Whose place is it then?
“Honey?” Mom interrupts my thoughts.
“Yeah, sorry. I just…there is something I should tell you.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound nervous. I’d be nervous if someone said that kind of thing to me. The woman and her damn faith. Always so sure everything is the way it’s supposed to be. Infuriating. Things should not be like this. This is fucked.
“The prophet was killed,” I say, not using Rida’s name. My mom wouldn’t know it. So few did… Rida lost her entire family when ISIS massacred them. That’s what faith can do—convince you that killing innocent people, enslaving young women, and raping them, is all good. Not just good, a must. A must-do. My jaw tightens with anger.
There is a long pause before my mom’s voice carries over the connection again. “I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. How did it happen?”
“I didn’t witness it. But from what I understand she was shot in the back during a special operation.”
“What does that even mean? A special operation?” There is an edge of anger in her voice now and I’m happy to hear it. Don’t smother all those emotions with your faith, Mom.
“It’s…” I don’t know how much to tell her. She believes Rida’s lies. Her entire gig is traveling around spreading the word of the prophet. If I tell her what happened she will probably start talking about it on stage. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Sometimes the truth can be as dangerous as lies. It certainly can be twisted into fiction in the blink of an eye. “I don’t know much about it, Mom.”
“I can tell when you’re lying,” she says. “You were never very good at it.”
For some reason I take offense at that. “Mom.” My tone is harsh.
“It’s true, sorry.”
“It’s true? You know what always pissed me off about you, Mom?” I don’t wait for her to respond. “You never owned your shit. Ever. You drank, you prayed, you did fucked-up shit. But you never owned it.”
“I didn’t. That’s true,” she says, her voice quiet but not chastened.
“I knew I never wanted to be like that, like you,” I say, hoping to hurt her.
“So now you own everyone’s shit?” she asks, her voice free of malice but also not curious. She’s trying to teach me a lesson. Point out my own foibles.
A long silence stretches. My throat is tight, my shoulders hunched. Blue wiggles further up the bed, and bumps my elbow. I lay a hand on his neck, digging my fingers into the thick fur.
“Yes,” I finally admit. “I do feel the need to try to change things, Mom. And when I try to stop interfering with other people’s shit, it sticks to me anyway.”
“That’s what shit does.”
“I can’t escape it.”
“It’s not an escape, honey. It’s a letting go.”
“Pretty sure with this metaphor it’s a washing off,” I note, playing with one of Blue’s ears. His eyes are closed and he sighs with appreciation.
“A cleansing, then. Yes, that works. A releasing.”
