The only voice I can’t ever escape from.
Of course, I know logically Mom isn’t calling me from across the Atlantic to tell me I was singing like a starving goat this morning, but my cheeks start burning automatically anyway. Once you’ve learned shame, it settles into your skin like a tattoo. You can cover it up but you can’t scrub off the sense of inadequacy.
The In This House album, which I was working out to, abruptly cuts off as I pick up. “Hey,” I say. “You’re up late.” It’s after midnight over there.
When she speaks, I’m hit by the familiar, tangled mess of fondness and fear. The genuine love for my own mother, mixed up with the trepidation of not knowing where this will go. I’m really not in the mood for more conflict at the moment, and I would’ve ignored the call, but the only thing that irritates Mom more than being spoken back to is being ignored. “Hey, baby. It’s good to hear your voice. I went out for dinner with the girls after work and it ran late, so I thought I’d try and catch you before I went to bed.”
I don’t relax yet. “It’s good you called now, actually. We’re heading to an interview in about half an hour.”
“Oh, having an easy morning, then?” she asks in a bright voice. But I’m fluent in double meanings. Translation: I’m hoping to catch you slacking off so I can lecture you about commitment and wasted opportunities.
“Nope, I’m in the gym. I spent all morning practicing,” I say, and walk myself right into another trap.
“Oh, good, are you working on that E in ‘Unrequitedly’?”
I start. I’ve never had an issue with “Unrequitedly.” “Oh, um, no.” I laugh, but it comes out strained. “Should I?”
Thank god the gym is empty, save Keegan who accompanied me down and is standing guard at the door, idly lifting a dumbbell while stealing glances at himself in the mirror. I have a feeling this is about to turn into the kind of conversation I really don’t want to have in public.
“It’s been a bit inconsistent, yes. I was showing Joan in the office a video yesterday and it was a little embarrassing. I thought you were past an E at this point?”
Wait, what video was she talking about? When the hell had I messed up on the E? My parts are too easy to mess up, aren’t they?
Aren’t they?
“I, um … I am. I’ve never had anyone comment on it.”
“I’m commenting on it.” Her laugh has an edge. Forced-breezy with a bite. “Do I not count?”
My mind’s racing ahead trying to plan out possible responses, and her possible comebacks to my hypothetical responses, trying to map out a de-escalation. I must take too long to reply, though, because the false cheeriness is gone when she presses on. “You always get so defensive whenever someone tries to give you feedback, Ruben. Is this the attitude you give your coaches when they supply notes? Do you think you’ve made it or something? ‘Ruben can’t do anything wrong, because he’s on an international tour.’ Because believe me, this is only the start of you having to prove yourself, don’t think they won’t drop you in a—”
“No, you’re right,” I say hastily. Please, I silently beg, just give me a break today. “Of course you’re right. That’s why I’m practicing. I know I can do better. The others hung out and watched a movie this morning, actually, but I chose not to, because I knew I had to get some practice in before we—”
“So, you’re being antisocial,” she interrupts gleefully. “Ruben, being part of a team means being part of the team. You can’t just hide in your room every minute you get. You need to be forming those connections and making a good impression.”
I can’t win. I know there’s no point. So why do I even keep trying? “I am part of the team. I’m always hanging out with everyone.”
“Well, just as long as it’s not always. You need to be making plenty of time to practice.”
We’re full circle again. And she doesn’t even notice. “I am,” I say weakly.
“I heard there’s been some fighting.”
There it is. The real reason for the call. Presumably, she saw something while she was out for drinks. Or someone brought it up, and she was embarrassed not to know anything about it. And now I’m thinking of Zach again, and all I want to do is hang up the phone and go hard on the leg press until all the hurt has been replaced by muscle exhaustion.
“Nah, no fighting,” I lie. “It’s just gossip.”
“Good.” Not good that I’m not in a fight with my closest friends, of course. Good because—“You can’t afford to get a reputation for being difficult. Even if there is anything happening behind the scenes, you have to stay professional.”
I’m trying. Maybe she needs to call Zach and give him this lecture. “Totally.”
“What’s with the one-word answers?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” I rack my brains to come up with a safe topic change. “Where did you go for drinks?”
“Who said I was drinking?”
I roll my eyes at the window. “Nobody. But it’s one a.m. I just assumed.”
“What, I can’t have a nice night out with my friends without being an alcoholic?”
I can save this, I think. “Of course you can. But you should have a cocktail or two. You deserve a nice night out to just have some fun. There’s nothing wrong with that. I wish I could.”
Her giggle is genuine now. “Well, I did have a couple. Do I sound drunk?”
“No, you just sound happy.” It’s a lie, but it’s one designed to make her relax. She gives me constructive criticism all the time, but even imagined criticism is enough to raise her hackles. Compliments, affection, and gushing are the only tools in my arsenal to make her claws retract. Enabling is just another word for self-preservation, sometimes.
“I am happy. It was a lovely night,” she says, and I finally relax. I’ve successfully navigated into calmer waters.