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Silence.
Then, slowly: “Who is this?”
“It’s me. Vivi.”
More silence.
“I had a daughter named Vivienne,” she said finally. “She was a dancer. Fierce little thing.”
My heart cracked down the middle. “That’s me, Mama. I’m your Vivienne.”
“Oh,” she said, like she’d dropped a teacup and didn’t know whether to mourn it or just sweep up the pieces. “I thought you were taller.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Mama,” I whispered, “I’m in trouble, and I’m scared.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, distant now. “Don’t tell me about trouble. I lived through hurricanes and decades of being misunderstood.”
I smiled despite the burn in my chest. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“It’s not what it used to be,” she said softly.
Neither of us were.
“Mama,” I said, voice trembling now, “Jessa’s gone.”
There was a pause.
Then: “Jessa … she was your friend, wasn’t she? The one with the loud laugh?”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. “Yeah. That’s her.”
“I always liked her,” she said.
“She’s dead,” I said. Just like that. Just two words that didn’t make sense together.
“Oh, baby …”
And that’s when I realized she was crying. Quiet, small cries that didn’t quite know where they belonged.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how to make it better anymore.”
I curled over the phone, sobbing now. “I don’t either.”
There was another pause. “Vivi?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want to go.”
My stomach dropped. “Go where?”
“When the money runs out.”
Fresh grief knifed through me. “You’re not going anywhere,” I whispered.
“They told me I had until the end of the month. But I get confused. Maybe that already passed.”