“Sophie Ann, love, it’s Roz.” Fox’s mother rarely, if ever, calls me directly so aside from the strangeness of the call, it’s not unwelcome. Except for the fact that I want nothing to remind me of Fox right now. I’ve got a growing reminder in my uterus and that is about all I can take. “I was after Fox. Little bastard’s not returning my calls. Only texts.”
“Hiya, Roz. How are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice upbeat.
“Well, shit,” she says, performing a conversational u-turn. “What’s got you under lumps, hun?”
I don’t know if that phrase is a New Zealand thing or if I completely misunderstood her, but it makes me smile a little. “Oh, um, nothing. I’m fine. I swear.”
“Bullshit says the exact same thing, lovey,” she says, clearly not pulling any punches. Not that Roz ever does. “Does this have anything to do with my son?”
“What makes you say that?”
It could have been an innocent question. It could have sounded calm and legitimately confused. But oh no. That would be too much to ask of my acting skills. Instead, the words come out in an unnatural shriek, the pitch nearing that of a dog whistle. Though obviously not that high because then neither of us would have been able to hear it. I digress. Moving on.
“Nothing really, but you just confirmed it. Hmm, what in the hell has that boy done now? First he avoids his mum. Now you,” she muses. I don’t correct her. “Sometimes he acts just like ’is father. Son of a bitch.”
Roz has continually held a candle for Fox’s dad since he left them in Hawaii and moved back to Sweden. And by candle, I mean the blazing hatred candle.
“Roz, it’s nothing,” I say and this time even I don’t believe me.
“Don’t make me come over there, darl’,” she threatens sweetly. I sometimes forget how much I love this lady. “I know he’s been spendin’ a lot of time with you as of late, which I think is great. It’s about time you two hooked up.”
“He told you that?” The pitch is back. Equally high, double embarrassing. Seriously, when did I return to preteen hysteria?
Roz chuckles. “No, but you just did.”
“Fuck.”
“Well, I don’t want to discuss the particulars, love, but that is the general idea, isn’t it?’
After I resolidify and pick myself up after melting to the floor in absolute shame and embarrassment, I attempt to collect myself enough to speak as an actual adult and not a teenager at a boy band arena tour.
“That’s not the long and short of it, Roz,” I say and immediately wish I had a script to read from. This is why I’m behind the scenes. I wait a good two minutes, maybe more, before Roz stops laughing.
“I’m sorry, love,” she says, wheezing. “Now you know where Fox gets his dirty mind. I love telling him that, too. He gets the dry heaves until I think he might really chuck something up. Bloody beautiful revenge, that.”
I sigh. “Okay, look. Here’s the thing: I’m trying to have a baby,” I say, forgetting momentarily that I am, in fact, pregnant. I just had my first sonogram.
“Hold up. You and my son are trying to procreate? Legitimately? What on God’s green earth is happening? Why don’t I know about this?”
I look to the ceiling, hoping said God will give me a boost on this one. “Long story short, I’m going into premature menopause. Or at least perimenopause. I ran out of wait time.”
“Okay,” she says, listening, but waiting for the punch line. Dear God, how I wish there was a punch line that was actually funny. Other than all the stupid Freudian slips, of course.
“So another long story short, I asked Fox to do the honors. Last long story shortest, I’m pregnant.”
A squealing sound such as I have never heard comes over the line and, sweet Christ, I wish I were temporarily deaf. Wait, I might be. Only in one ear, though. In any case, there is clearly a shitload of happy dancing happening at Roz’s house right now. And yet, it makes me feel worse.
“So you’re having my grandbaby?” I can practically hear her knitting booties and an entire infant wardrobe.
“Technically, yes,” I say, before I can think better of it.
“And what, pray tell, do you mean by technically?”
Seriously? I mean the word is pretty easy to define.
“Sophie?”
“Oh shit. Roz, I really don’t want to get into this with you right now.”
“Too late, doll. We’re in it. What did he do?” she asks.
I straighten my spine, rapidly pulling taut into a tall straight line. I can’t speak because, well, she just called him out. I honestly expected her to start in on me, telling me to fix this or that she won’t give up her only grandchild, yada yada.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she encourages, but I hear the anger behind it. “I know he cocked it up somehow. It’s not tattling when you’re an adult.”
It’s still totally tattling. Totally. Hahahaha. “I—”
“Listen, maybe I’m not the person you’d normally spill all this to, and I get it. But my son is an unfortunate carrier of his father’s DNA, and despite all my best efforts, that influence is still largely transparent. I’m here to do my best to minimize that particular impact. Got me?”
I smile. “Yeah, I do, but—”
“Sophie.”
The way she says my name is twofold—it’s gentle and caring, but also parental.
And it breaks me. Not like in the prison way or in taming a wild horse, but like cracking an egg. I don’t know why I felt the need to describe it like that, but there you go.
“It wasn’t supposed to be anything but… reproduction,” I say after struggling for words. “But it became more. At one point, I knew I was in too deep, but it was too late. Then I found out I was pregnant and—”
“That little shit bailed.”
I stare openmouthed at the phone for a breath or two. “Yeah. Basically.”
“I will kick the ever-loving shit out of him. I swear to God, that boy is a piece of work,” she grinds out. Her frustration-fueled rant would absolutely be entertaining were it not at the expense of a very emotional situation on my part. Which is hilariously ironic. Or not. I don’t know. I’d have to check the definition again.
It takes me another half an hour to talk Roz off the ledge and not say anything to Fox about this, but the best I can do is get a tentative “I’ll consider it.” By that point, I don’t care what she does. I’m exhausted just having had this conversation. Then I realize I have a secret weapon. And her name is “Mom.”
After I hang up with Roz and suck down some water (I am so thirsty after that), I call up the mamaleh. As soon as she picks up, I say, “Mom, sick ’em.” Of course it takes a little more than that, but it doesn’t take much for her to understand what needs to be done. That’s right. Mom’s like the consiglieri of our very non-Italian, let alone Sicilian, family.
As far as I can tell, Roz hasn’t even mentioned anything to Fox.