Hard Sell| ETHMA

18

EMMA
Thursday Evening, September 28

My iPhone continues its relentless buzz from the counter, and Juno gives the phone a baleful look before giving me one that's a bit . . . scolding.

I scrape my hair into a messy bun atop my head as I give the dog a look right back. "I'm not answering it."
Juno sits. At least put the phone on "Do Not Disturb."

I shake my head. "I fed the beast. I have to live with the consequences. It'll remind me to be smarter next year."

Juno slumps to the floor with a sigh, resting her snout on her paw as she avoids eye contact.
She's disappointed in me, and that's just fine. I'm disappointed in me, too.

Honestly, will I never learn?

Today is my mother's birthday. Yeah. As in the mother who I have almost nothing to do with. The one who was a mother by biological contribution only.

Every year as September 28 approaches, I tell myself that this year I'll let the day come and go without doing a damn thing.

But some stupid part of me, the part that's still nine and hoping the homemade birdhouse or carefully constructed bead necklace will win her over, sends a gift.

I've moved beyond the homemade stuff. She's not worth the effort. I know that much, at least. And while the online shopping process is infinitely easier . . . it has created a whole other monster.
It never fails. The first text message or voice mail is a thank-you (mind you, it's the only time I hear from her all year).

The second message comes an hour later and is the guilt trip: You know, the more I think about it, the purse is just too extravagant. I appreciate the offer, but if it's all the same to you, I'll think I'll sell it. I could use the cash for more practical things.

Now, don't applaud her just yet. The tone shifts in the third message: Call me back already. Things have been tough around here lately, and I could use some help.

The fourth message is where things get really nasty: I don't know how I raised someone so selfish. You can afford a fancy leather purse, but you can't be bothered to make sure I have basic necessities?

Now, let's get a few things straight. First, she didn't raise anyone. I raised myself.

Second, she has basic necessities. How do I know?

Because I paid off her mortgage. I pay for a twice-weekly grocery service that delivers everything she needs to make easy, healthy meals for herself.
That's right, I put a roof over her head and food on the table.

The first one is repayment for the little that she did do for me and my half brothers back in the day. The second is a bonus.

The messages will escalate for the next twenty-four hours, shifting from promises to pay me back for whatever "loan" she wants (fact: she won't), to angry rants, to sobbing guilt trips.

Also, if you're wondering, she never actually sells the jewelry or handbags I send her. We're friends on Facebook, and she's addicted to the platform, posting a dozen pictures a day. Most of them feature the Coach purse, the earrings from Bergdorf, the Swarovski watch.

Why do I do it?

Good freaking question.

As far as why I don't just turn off my damn phone? It's like I told the dog . . . I keep hoping that I'll teach myself a lesson.

She may not ever change, but I can.

"What are we eating?" I ask Juno, opening the fridge.

Her head pops up, tail wagging enthusiastically at the prospect of getting something other than kibble tonight.