“Ariadne, good to hear from you. How’s work?”
I glance at the files spread across the table, due diligence for a client who never remembers my name. “Good, I guess.”
“Work hard. Here’s your mother.” He hands over the phone, and I check the time. Eight seconds worth of conversation—that’s about the usual.
Mom scolds him in the background. “You can at least speak to your own daughter.”
“I need to finish the garage.” His voice fades as he walks away.
“Hi, Mom,” I say when she comes on.
“Hi, sweetie.”
We talk about how the squirrels are digging up her tomato plants. Then she says, “Your sister called me the other day.”
“Phoebe?” As if I have another sister.
“She’s back in Canada, living in Montreal.”
I laugh. “Like that’ll last.”
“Ari.” Mom’s voice holds a warning that I ignore.
“She’ll get bored and leave after a month. We all know it.”
She tsks at me. “I wish you two got along better. You could call her.”
“We get along fine as we are. Plus, Phoebe didn’t bother to give me her new number. I hope you told her the same thing as you’re telling me.”
Mom’s silent, and I know she didn’t. It rubs me the wrong way when she acts as if I’m the one who should be doing all the work to be a good sister.
“You two are so alike,” Mom says.
As always, speaking of Phoebe sours the conversation, and I want to get off the phone as soon as possible without Mom getting upset. “What else are you doing today?” I ask in my best neutral voice.
Three minutes later, I disconnect and jump up from my chair. Phoebe’s back in the country, but it’s got nothing to do with me. Montreal is the same as her living in San Diego, or Chiang Mai, or Mexico City. She didn’t think about me from those places or from all the other places she’s been since she left. I was thirteen when she dropped out of school and took off. One day she was in my life, and the next, she was doing more interesting things than whatever her boring little sister could offer.
Expelling my breath too hard for it to be a sigh, I set my timer for my next working session. I have things to do, important tasks, and thinking about Phoebe isn’t one of them.
Five
Work is more annoying than usual on Monday. When I leave, I gulp in the air until I feel dizzy. It’s not fresh since this is Bay Street, but it’s better than the office. In the middle of my breathing, Hana texts me one word:People.
That’s all she needs to say. Hana’s job as a corporate diversity consultant means talking to people about why it’s not cool to be racist, sexist, ableist homophobes and asking if they could please not be like that. Her work trips are a poisonous combination of physically and psychologically exhausting.
Me:You ok?
Hana:Work sucks. The hotel air con is arctic. Eomma says I’m eating too much fast food because I posted a picture of a matcha latte.
I’m not surprised, because Hana’s mom is a piece of work. Trying to get Hana to see how she looks unfiltered by her mother’s constant negative comments—all provided under the guise of being helpful or being for Hana’s own good—is an ongoing, eternally heartbreaking battle.
I grit my teeth and text back:Your food is your business.
Hana:I know.
We message about things we hate for a bit longer, and then I head home. Jihoon’s already in his room. I don’t want to knockon his door, but I wish he’d been in the living room so I could feel less alone. I sit on my bed, mind both empty and buzzing. I want to do something, anything, but I also want to do nothing. Inertia wins out.
My phone rings, and I glance at it. It’s Mom, and I decline the call. I don’t want to talk about Phoebe, and that’s the only reason she’d be calling at this time.