Something I Don't Know

30: sometimes you should just let the phone ring

"Grey, you've got to eat a bit more, you know? All the good food in this city and you're still as scrawny as a stick. It's not good, especially when it's so cold out here right now, it'd do you good to have some extra blubber—"

"Mom."

"—and for God's sake, answer your phone more often! You never know! Someone could have died or gotten sick or I might need you for something, and you wouldn't know, because you didn't answer my call, or heaven forbid, you declined it—"

"Mom!" I snap. I don't like snapping at my mother, as it feels sort of sacrilegious (if I am not naturally sacrilegious by being part demon), but it's the only way to get her attention. By now, we've walked a few blocks down from the subway station; she pauses in front of a yellow punch buggy, rental keys already in her hands. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

"I'm sorry," she says, raking her hair out of her face. It's much longer than I remember. Last time she was here, it was in a bob that curled just at the base of her neck, and now it tumbles past her shoulders. "I was distracted by your skinniness."

I look down at myself hesitantly. "I'm not—I'm not that scrawny, am I?"

"Oh, positively, honey. You look like I could throw a pebble at you and break a bone."

"Jesus, Mom," I say, shaking my head. "Please just tell me what's going on. You seem—bothered."

I'm not sure if bothered is truly the right word, but it seems close enough. Her sweatshirt's got stains all over it (so that's not the most unusual bit, but it's noticeable enough) and her shoes are scuffed and her albeit normally frizzy hair is slightly more frizzy than usual. Besides, it's even more than how she looks. It's the way her eyes keep darting around the street, the way every step seems to have a purpose I don't know about. She's here, and she's here for a reason.

"Bothered?" Mom repeats. "Why would—I'm not bothered."

"Is everything okay?" I say, stepping closer to the curb, beside the parking meter. As people drove past us, dressed in just about everything from gym shorts and slides to full-out bubble gooses and blanket scarves, my phone buzzes in my pocket. No doubt it's Midge, but I can't talk right now.

Mom sighs, her shoulders slumping. She leans back against the rental car's passenger side door, the cold pinching her cheeks red. "I came in on the most recent tour bus. Not because—I mean, I'm not touring."

I shrug. "I could gather that."

She scoffs at me, but goes on, "I came to see you, Grey. My boy. And also..."

Ah. I knew there was an and also.

"To speak with Anik," Mom says, and as I let out a confused whatttt her eyes slide to the ground. "Anik has said he needs to speak with me—urgently—and that you are to accompany me."

I shake my head. Open my mouth to say something. Shake my head again. "Mom, you know why this is a terrible idea, right? You know why I'm thinking that this is a terrible idea?"

"Yes," she says, and steps forward, taking my face in her hands. I'm not sure I like it—her hands cupping my face. It kind of makes me feel like a toddler again. By now, I've long since been done toddling. "Yes, baby, I know exactly what you're thinking. But there are two of us, and one of him, and I think it's a worse idea not to do what he wants."

I look at her levelly. "What does he want?"

She bites her lip, dropping her hands. "I don't know. It's impossible to know. But you'll come with me, won't you?"