Missed Calls

Mirjana just called. I declined. I don’t feel like talking to her much lately. Not that I ever felt like it at all. She’s like that annoying friend who you hang out with because you feel bad. And I do feel bad, but I can only take so much of her intense desire to be a mother. Because she’s not. And I don’t think she ever will be. I don’t think she ever can be. She’s an addict. Addicted to drugs, and alcohol. Addicted to living in a fantasy world. She always thought she was a perfect mother. But a perfect mother wouldn’t leave her six year old on a New York stoop at 2 AM while she goes to score some “adult candy” as she called it. Looking back, I guess I should feel sad. I really wish I was sad. But I don’t really feel anything anymore.
I guess I love her. She’s technically my mom, but I never really felt connected to her, you know? I never really experienced that unbreakable bond, but I always felt like a burden, like I was holding her back. That’s what her boyfriends always told her. She’d bring home a new guy every few months; he’d eat my food, watch my tv, take up all my mother’s love, and she would just let it happen. Whenever he would leave the seat up, or accidently give her a black eye, she would just let it happen. But sooner or later he’d leave. Then it was just the two of us, and mostly it was just me. But yeah, I guess I love her anyway. I used to tell her that all the time: that I loved her so much, as if it would fix everything wrong with our relationship. I told her in the store, and in the car. I told her I loved her on the bloody bathroom floor, while we were both struggling to breathe. But she didn’t hear me, she was too focused on getting him back, or finding her next fix. So after that, I never said I love you to her again. She never needed me too.
As I got older, a lot of nights, Mirjana would disappear. I assume she was shooting up in some rando’s apartment or possibly in jail, but she was gone. This was our routine. She’d be happy and find love, say “this guy’s the one”, but he was only the one who would beat the shit of both us, then send her on a bender, A twenty one day diet of cocaine and vodka. Maybe a hospitalisation, possibly an arrest. After that the first thing she’d ask was how much money I had on me. I wish I could say this only happened once, possibly twice. But it was ongoing for years. Fortunately, she would always come back. But sometimes I would wonder what would’ve happened if she didn’t. If one day she drank a little too much, or some guy hit her a little too hard. Where would I be now?
She keeps calling, and calling, and calling. Sometimes when she calls, I let it ring. I enjoy the idea of her hoping I’ll pick up, of her waiting for me to pick up. But I never do. Why should I? The last time I picked up was January 2 at 1:17 am, and it lasted 1 minutes and 11 seconds. She called from the top of Brooklyn Bridge. It was hard to hear exactly what she was saying because the wind was blowing so hard. Her muffled crying and broken words tore me apart. I was speechless, trying to make out what was going through her head. And as if all the wind had suddenly stopped, and everything was completely silent. The only thing I heard in the final seconds of our was “Goodbye”, I didn’t know what to do so I turned to what I always thought made everything better. Right before she hung up I said I love you. And I’d like to think that was what made her come down, not her fear of death, or need for one last trip, or the cute guy she chatted up in the bar. I like to believe that for once in my life my mother actually heard me say I love you and believed me.
That wasn’t the last time she called. But it was the last time I picked up. It took everything I am to answer that call, to tell her I love her, to not throw up because all the memories of our life together flooded back in. I don’t pick up anymore because that’s what she does to me. She breaks me. I’m not a daughter to her, I’m a toy. She plays with me when she wants, but trades up whenever a new guy comes along, and whenever she’s on the verge of losing me, she pulls me right back in. But I can’t let her do that anymore. Not matter how many times she disappears, or she calls, or comes back. I have to decline. Still I love her, I have to, don’t I?