“What would you prefer me to say, Cressida? Hello, I haven’t seen hide nor hair from you in half a decade, but I am so thrilled you picked up the phone now? Because I don’t feel that way. You made your bed, so if you’re in trouble yet again because of the degenerates you’ve decided to associate yourself with, then I am sorry, but you must lie in it.”
It was surprising how much it hurt to hear her apathy. It surprised me because I hadn’t expected to care. My parents had groomed me to be married to their best friend, pressured me to be a stay-at-home wife, and basically belittled every dream I ever had. Then, when I’d finally found happiness, they had turned their backs on me just because that happiness took a different form than they’d expected.
How could I care about the opinion of people like that?
What did it matter when I had people in my life who respected me, supported me, and loved me unconditionally? When King had given me a family of my own greater than any I could have previously imagined?
I decided it must’ve been biological. Something intrinsic in me needed the approval of my parents, maybe even at the price of my own contentment.
At least now I knew it was a price I wasn’t willing to pay.
“No,” I said slowly, rubbing at the sore spot in my chest. “I’m not exactly sure what I thought, but I wanted to reach out to tell you something.”
“Unless it’s that you’ve finally overcome this midlife crisis, boy-toy phase you are in, then I doubt I want to hear it.”
I winced, ignoring Benny who frowned over at the cash register as he helped a customer gift wrap one of our special editions. If he knew who I was talking to, sweet, passivist Benny Benito would rip the phone from my hands and stomp on it if it meant getting me out of this toxic conversation.
“It’s not a phase. I’m only thirty. And King is the farthest thing from a boy toy you could ever imagine. He graduated from UBC with honours, and he’s the kindest man I’ve ever known.”
Mum––or Phoebe, really, not Mum anymore––laughed her classy, tinkling laugh, being a bitch the way women like her were; passive aggressive, backstabbing, and manipulative.
I found I much preferred biker bitches. They said it outright, fought about it hard (sometimes with fists), and then let sleeping dogs lie after it was aired properly.
“He’s a good-looking boy you took advantage of as his teacher. I’m honestly surprised you weren’t prosecuted properly for it.”
Freaking frack, but it hurt to have my mother think I was some scheming seductress, and it hurt even more she refused to see my relationship for what it was. Anger sparked in my belly and the savageness that normally lay dormant like a sleeping dragon in the pit of my gut stirred slowly into wakefulness.
“Well, Mother, you should know that good-looking man has asked me to marry him, and I’ve agreed. We’re getting married in two months, and for one crazy moment, I thought I should let you know.”
The plans had come together like a dream. King and I weren’t flashy people; we didn’t need an orchestra or fancy food and a ton of bling to make our wedding special. Instead, we were having a massive potluck with all the Old Ladies bringing the food, Eugene playing the piano for the processional, and then Curtains DJing the reception. We would get married on our property, amid the hundreds-year-old trees thick as castle spires and just as magical.
Two months. It was a quick engagement, but honestly, I would have married him tomorrow at Vancouver’s city hall. I’d even stopped taking birth control because we wanted babies, and we wanted a lot of them. I was only thirty, but I wanted to be a young mum, and King was only too happy to spend countless hours in bed with me endeavouring to give me exactly that. Those babies would probably never know their maternal grandparents and that thought did strange alchemy to my feelings about Phoebe and Peter Garrison. It changed my guilt-ridden disappointment into calcified anger.
“I hope you aren’t expecting your father and me to attend.” Phoebe’s voice was filled with mild revulsion, and I could picture her as she was, standing with her hand on her chest like some 18th century ingénue who had been shocked to her core by a scandal. “He just received an award at the university, you know, for his commitment to education, and it would not do to have his name associated with those…animals.”
“I guess it depends on your definition of animal, doesn’t it?” I asked, tone saccharine, belly burning. “To me, an animal is someone without the intelligence to discern right from wrong, truth from fiction. Someone who is unevolved and cruel for the sake of cruelty. Someone like you.”