2

Aunt Florence is calling me non-stop. I barely know how to make the new cell phone she gave me work, all I know is how to pick up and end calls. She put her contact info into it before she even gave it to me, so while I’m moving all my stuff in, I’m getting back-to-back calls from my worried Aunt Bitchface.

“How do you feel now that you’ve moved out and you’re on your own?” Her voice sounds small and strained — either very excited or she’s taking a fat crap and she’s very constipated. Then again, her voice always sounds like that unless she’s mad. Her face would get beet red and she’d always take a cold bath after I pissed her off.

“I’m kind of concerned for one,” I groan while pulling in the giant box containing my bed, “I’m still technically a minor, right? Isn’t my living like this illegal? Last I check I need an adult-”

“You’re almost 18 anyway!” she giggles nervously, “It’ll be fine! Who cares! You need this to heal, Dr. Andreev said no one can help you but yourself.”

“Dr. Andreev is a dumbass who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“Cassandra Mia Dawson!” She’s trying to scare me into submission the way mom used to, huh, “We do not use language like that!”

“You’re not my mom, it’s only scary if mom does it.”

“Well, you’re mom’s not here, is she?” she yells — she must’ve finally got the poop out because she doesn’t sound strained anymore.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

I stay silent. I want her to know she fucked up by bringing up my unwillingly absent mother. I would’ve thrown my phone out the window if she had brought up my dad.

“Hun, I-”

I hang up.

I call the only other contact in my phone with the intent to bitch about her to them.

It rings. It’s ringing. Then a tone. I hear a familiar Russian accent from a man who you can tell is smiling ear to ear just by the sound of his voice.

“Hello, I hope you’re having a wonderful day, Friend! This is Dr. Andreev, so very nice to hear from you. I am terribly sorry I couldn’t pick up the phone, I’m probably in a session right now but I will call back as soon as I get the chan-”

The voice message is interrupted by another tone. Dr. Andreev always picks up, even if he misses the call, he’ll call you back before you even get to leave a voice message. I hate that considerate-happy-go-lucky-not-a-care-in-the-world fuck, but he’s the only one who listens.

I pick up, “Cassy! How are you?”

The happiness in his voice is making me nauseous, “It’s Cass.”

He completely ignores my correction, “Is your Aunty being mean again?”

“Please stop talking to me like I’m a child or the next time I see you I’ll punch you in the face.”

“Yes, can you answer my questions?”

“Yeah, Florence brought up my mom again…” I mumble. I suddenly don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’d be nicer to just snuggle under a blanket and cry in my newly moved-in bed.

“Did you tell her not to like we practiced?” he asked hopefully.

I didn’t want to disappoint him like I do every time I promise to do something we practiced. My stomach grumbles and my mouth goes dry. I get a little dizzy, sit down on the floor, and hang up.

I stick my head in my hands, pushing my palms into my closed eyes until I see splashes of colour in the darkness. I take deep breaths, my fingers gripping tightly to my hair. I don’t want to cry, no matter what. I always promised myself I was over it, I can’t fall down the rabbit hole again.

I lean my head back against the wall and a sheet of paper falls from the pile I had set down next to me. It’s the postcard — deep brown with bronze lettering. Murray’s Antiques. Sounds distracting…

I find the Google app on my phone, search for the name and call the number.

“Hi, sorry if I’m interrupting anything. Are you offering any job openings right now?”