Rose kept a notebook near and recorded her phone conversation with her mother, just because. A part of her, the part that supported herself and paid for her condoms, cigarettes, and rent, assumed a recording of her conversation with her mother might one day come in handy. Her mother wasn’t afraid of psychological blackmail. She was constantly reminding Rose of the things she should be grateful for. Rose was grateful. She pressed record.
Rose’s mother’s voice was muffled by wind sounds; she was driving along a busy highway in Southern California with her windows open. Just the sort of thing her mother would do in order to complicate the conversation, which in this case was about an advertisement Rose had placed in a newspaper. Rose wrote the advertisement as an experiment. Though, because nobody had yet responded, the outcome remained uncertain. The ad Rose placed requested something deranged. At first it had read someone deranged, but Rose quickly realized that that wasn’t quite right.
What does something deranged even mean? her mother demanded.
Rose explained to her mother, who was angling to get into a car accident (as was her way), that she had written the advertisement using those words because she wanted a response that would be more direct.
How’s your thesis advisor? Rose’s mother asked.
It was a big question, whether Rose’s mother simply avoided taking the bait or if she simply didn’t listen to a thing her daughter said. Rose bet on the former, because despite being a terrible driver who insisted on driving, her mother was not a stupid woman.
He’s narrow and arguable, Rose answered her mother.
Rose’s mother wanted to know if her daughter was subsisting on coffee produced from a plastic cone: What’s wrong with electric coffeemakers? Why all the fuss about taste, about nuance? I’d be remiss not to point this out, her mother said, defiantly sucking and smacking on her nicotine gum.
Her mother then requested that Rose listen up and stop fucking around with experiments and get busy engaging with the public in a less abstract manner. Why not go to a mall? Or a movie?
Rose knew when to ignore her mother. She admired her mother, plotted to assassinate her mother, or ignored her mother. At her age those were the remaining options.
The sound! It’s all muffled! her mother complained, before quickly going on to ask Rose if she was spending the entirety of her days in the library.
Remember, Rose, you need fresh air, her mother reminded her. Ever since you were a little girl you’ve needed air. Perhaps you should consider getting a small pet. Pets are calming.
Her mother saw so many young people, around Rose’s age, contently walking small dogs around in the middle of the day like they had no place else to be. Her mother wouldn’t even speculate about how they fed the creatures, given the job market. She wouldn’t worry Rose about the future.
Give me a minute, her mother said as she repositioned herself. Her car seat was sticky, she explained. It was sweaty and sunny and sticky in Southern California, and she’d spilled her diet ice tea all over her lap. It was the least they could know about one another.
Sure thing, Mom.
Rose tried her mother on her ten-minute work breaks. She smoked on her break and was looking forward to finishing her cigarette. Because after her cigarette the call would be over and she would feverishly lick her menthol-flavored lips, up and down, down and up like a high-speed elevator. She never carried mints or orange-flavored lozenges or even tea tree oil toothpicks to mask the smell. On her smoke breaks Rose considered packing up her shit in Brooklyn and moving farther west to Washington State or Alaska, although she knew that wouldn’t get her anywhere. Alaska would one day be submerged in water. But people still did it. They moved west to discover something new.
Have you heard from your cousin Lena? her mother asked, for the hundredth time in the last week. She’s so pretty and so lonely, her mother said about Rose’s cousin Lena. To think how popular Lena once was.
For a moment Rose considered hitting pause on the recording. She felt like a penguin that continues to flap its wings without ever getting off the ground
I worry most about the popular ones, Rose’s mother went on. If I recall correctly, her mother said, your cousin was pretty darn good at putting sentences together. She could help you with your advertisement. Lena knew how to grab attention, even if she’s struggling now in her tiny studio apartment stuffed with feral cats.
She only wished her daughter would eat something nutritious. She only wished her daughter would forget about the silly ad.
Why print anyhow? her mother asked. I thought youth spent more time online, aren’t all the available men online?
But that had nothing to do with it. Jesus, what did men have to do with it?
Rose had in fact contacted her cousin Lena about the advertisement, and her cousin had suggested that Rose aim to get what she wanted by pretending. Her cousin advised Rose to imagine a language for water jugs. Lena said guys like fluidity. She suggested Rose try to be more relaxed in general. She said, Rose, be tranquil. Think: turquoise. Think: Taos, New Mexico. Limitless landscape, limitless barren landscape and you are the water jug. Lena said water jugs and turquoise were the epitome of relaxed and that Rose should endeavor to be that way.
I see, her mother said understandingly. Well, as long as you recognize that the simulation of drowning isn’t really drowning.
Rose’s mother had an uncanny knack at changing the subject matter when it suited her. Like the time when Rose nearly cut off her pointer finger and her mother returned home with a synthetic tangerine blouse from Sears, or when she told her mother she was gay and her mother gave her four Norco and two fingers of gin and sent her off to nap.
Humor me, Rose. Jesus, where’s your sense of humor? You used to be funny! I bet your cousin Lena would have something to say about the importance of humor. I know she’d agree with me if I said fun and humor are good for a relationship’s longevity.
Mom, is it off-putting that I want to be called a cunt in bed?
I need a real cigarette, her mother said. Your experiments are killing me, Rose.
Go forward, you useless asshole, it’s a green light! her mother yelled into the receiver.
Mom, did you try honking?
Rose’s mother asked if she’d made her doctor’s appointment for her IUD replacement. It was important to keep up on these things, her mother reminded her.
Mom, can I tell you something that’s weighing on me? Rose asked, when she felt an opening.
I’m trying to listen, Rose, I really am, her mother said.
Earlier that day, as Rose made her way to work, she’d come across a blindfolded child and now it was all she could think about. It was hailing in Greenpoint. The boy was drenched to the bone, icy and alone in a fenced-in yard relentlessly hitting a piñata in the shape of a donkey with a baseball bat. Wack. Wack. Wack. Over and over like neither he nor the piñata, nor the bat, were really there, like they were imitations of what life should be like.
Was he sick? Was it his birthday? her mother speculated.
Rose had stopped to ask the blindfolded child if needed any help, and when she looked inside the effected paper donkey, it was empty. Not a single piece of candy or plastic toy was inside. The boy wasn’t after candy or prizes or treats. He was unfazed by the emptiness of the donkey.
Perhaps he isn’t bothered by anything, her mother said.
That’s just it, Rose said. Perhaps he’s bothered by everything.
I’m pulling into the driveway now, Rose’s mother cautioned about the dwindling reception. That damned mangled rat is still on the barbed wire fence! she yelled into the receiver.
Rose wanted to be helpful. She despised herself for it, her tendency to be helpful when she should have been setting up boundaries to protect herself. Rose would try again tomorrow on her break.
Mom, you know you can use the rake to catapult the rat into the ravine for the hawks to fetch.
What’s that? Listen, Rose, make sure to contact your cousin Lena. Be grateful that she loves you like a sister. I can’t bear to think of her with all this weather, and to think of her all alone in that stuffy studio apartment, cats crawling over her furniture, crawling all over her pretty face during this time of year. You, I know you’ll get by. You always do, Rose.
I think I’m losing you, Mom.
The moment came, that itchy moment in a call when you don’t know if it has dropped, if your words are no longer being received. Rose’s finger moved to stop recording, but she just let it hover there.
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Nora Lange‘s writing has appeared in Denver Quarterly, The Fairy Tale Review, The Morning News, Juked, LIT, Hobart, HTMLGIANT, Birkensnake, The Hairpin, Two Serious Ladies, and elsewhere. Lange received her MFA from Brown University’s Literary Arts Program where she was a Kaplan Fellow. She is currently hard at work revising her first novel. Find her at noralange.com