Sad phone calls

Zoe’s POV.

My fingers itched as I touched the phone. It had been months and my mom was unable to reach me. I wondered if she missed me. Okay, that was doing too much, but I still could not stop myself from hoping she was worried.

The sound of my ancient iPhone coming on earned a breath through my lips. I had already planned it out. I’d turn on the phone, call my mom, tell her the words I had rehearsed, and hang up. I would not listen to her opinion; I'd just give her words to think about and get off the phone. Then I’ll call my brother.

But I should have known nothing ever went the way I wanted it to, because my phone rang immediately after it came on. It was Matthew. Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

“Hey, Matt,” I breathed.

“Really? Really, Zoe? I didn’t know you could be so selfish. How could you? After everything our parents have done for you? You ruined their hard work, Zoe. Mom had big plans for you. Then you disappear and show up on TV? Are you stupid?” Matthew lashed out. Each word was a whip to my soul; each word broke me. Not because I did not expect them, but because I had not expected them from him.

I would cry, but not now.

“Yes. I’m probably stupid. But this stupid girl has been nominated for three awards; I hope to win at least one. Will you come to the awards night? I have an extra ticket but I have no one to invite.” My voice was devoid of emotion; it was the only way, else I would break down. Learning to act turned out to be a useful skill after all.

“Are you crazy?” My brother spat. “Do you know how much pressure Mom is putting on me because of this little stunt of yours?”

I see. That was why. I was always on the receiving end of Mom’s stress and hurtful words, but it seemed like he had to bear that responsibility in my absence and he didn’t like it.

“I might be stupid, but I’m not crazy. I’ll mail the invite to you. Feel free to ignore it, but I’d appreciate your presence.” And like I had practiced doing with my mom, I hung up on my brother.

I didn’t waste time calling my mom; any pause I took would make me lose the audacity I had gathered to make the call.

“Dr. Adams,” I greeted. This was a formal meeting. I wasn’t her daughter.

“Who’s this?” she replied. I bit back a bitter laugh.

“It’s your daughter. Zoe.” Two can play this game.

“My daughter is a doctor. What are you?” my mom hissed.

“I’ll send you an invite to an award show I’ve been nominated for. Come and find out what I am now,” I told her, and then I hung up.

Okay, that went more easily than I thought it would. I understood my brother was bitter, but I hoped he would calm down and attend the awards night. I could swear on my life that my mom wouldn’t.

Although I had earlier decided not to, I considered calling my dad again. His opinion would not change my mom’s mind, and I knew he would not voice anything controversial to my mom’s principles. He had been like that since I’ve known him—always silent with a book to his face—but I could not help but imagine that I would call him and he would whisper in my ear that he was proud of me; that he would apologize for not taking my side in the presence of my mom but go ahead and tell me he watched my drama and that I did really well.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

I called. Prof. Samuel Adams did not pick up. I called again. And again. One call per hour.

On the fourth hour, he picked up. And when he spoke, I almost wished he hadn’t. “You do not get to call me after that stupid stunt you pulled, young woman. You should have gone for your residency, finished it, and then called me. Don’t call me again. I don’t care what you do anyway.” And then he hung up. He did not even care to hear my voice—to ask how I was doing. He simply did not care.

That was what broke me.

My body slid to the floor and tears flowed from my eyes.

Was this how the world works? To deny oneself for recognition from those who matter, or to follow your heart alone?

I didn’t think either was better because there was still a very big hollow in my heart.

My phone pinged.

“Hi, Miss Goody Two-Shoes. I just wanted to say congratulations on your nominations. Someone is going to go home with two awards.” It ended with a cheering emoji.

It was from Arman. I couldn’t help the frown that deepened on my face. I was nominated for three awards; why was he wishing I went home with two? What was the good luck in that?

Another ping.

“I was nominated for three awards too, and I’ll win all three. So two awards for you because you can’t go home with the same number of awards as me. Break a leg.”

I now couldn’t help the smile that escaped my lips. The boy was an idiot, but he had a very good sense of humor.

If he cared to send good wishes to his enemies (which I considered myself to be), I envied his friends. What would it be like to have a person always so full of life as a friend? I could guess it would be contagious.

Everyone was always full of smiles when Arman was on set. I remembered one time when he couldn’t make it "due to personal reasons"; the whole crew was dull without him. His absence was glaring.

I almost wished I would do another movie with him. Maybe not as his love partner, but as his friend; maybe then, we might be able to be friends.

If wishes were horses…