I call instead. I miss the sound of my parents’ voices. Their accents remind me of home.
“Allie?” Mama answers in surprise, calling me by the version of my given name I prefer.
Both my parents know about Honey Dewberry, as well as what I do for a living. While they did require a period of adjustment, they’ve come to accept it.
Frankly, they know me too well to be surprised by any of it. I was always the “showy” Dixon child.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Shouldn’t you be workin’ right about now?”
“I hurt my foot so I had to take a night off.”
“Aw, and right before Valentine’s Day too,” she sympathizes. “Nothin’ too serious I hope?”
“No, I just stepped on a piece of glass is all.” I smile as I remember everything that happened after that. “What are y’all doin’ tomorrow?”
I’m always surprised at how easily my Georgia accent slips back in so naturally whenever I call home.
“You know your daddy. Mr. Surprise don’t never tell me nothin’,” she says, though I hear the slight tinge of giddiness in her voice. Even after almost thirty-five years of marriage they still have it.
It certainly gives a girl something to think about.
“More to the point, what’s that gentleman of yours got planned for you?” I don’t miss the subtle note of disapproval at the word “gentleman.” Mama and Daddy have been less quick to thaw over my choice of relationship, though they haven’t come out and said as much.
A daughter can always tell, though.
Now that the bitter pill of rejection is dissolving in my belly, their opinion of him gives me something else to think about.
“You’ll be happy to know that we are no longer together.”
The silence on the other end says more than any words could.
“I’m so sorry to hear that—wait a second, did that man break up with you right before Valentine’s Day?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I say, which is technically the truth.
If Francis honestly thinks we’re an item, even privately, after this, he is sorely mistaken.
“How’s Daddy?”
“Don’t you go and try and change the subject, Miss Albertha Dixon. You go on ahead and get it out. That’s what your Mama is for.”
I smile and feel another round of tears come. I shake it away. The last thing I want to do is ruin her upcoming special day with my messiness. “Mama, it’s fine. You and Daddy can crow all night about how right you were about him if it makes you feel better. I’m over it.”
As I say the words, they begin to ring true. Now that the impressive sheen has worn off the man, I’m beginning to see where they had a point, even if it was mostly unspoken.
Francis is weak.
I’ll bet he won’t even bother calling me to break the news until after Valentine’s Day.
The bastard.
“You still got some of that moonshine we sent you home with last time you were down here?”
I grin.
My uncle Dickey makes his own moonshine, flavored with every kind of thing just to have people buy it out of curiosity. Last time I visited I came back with a flask of cinnamon apple and a flask of peach pie. I nip into one or the other when I’m having a particularly bad day.
“Yes, Mama.”
“You go on ahead and drink you some of that tonight. You have my permission.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I sass, making her laugh.
“You comin’ down for Memorial Day this year?” It’s more of a confirmation than a question. I fly down at least twice a year, Memorial Day and Thanksgiving. Memorial Day always falls on a Monday so it’s convenient for me work-wise and Thanksgiving is definitely a slow night.
“You know it,” I reply, feeling excited at the thought.
The Dixon family is large enough as it is. Add in all the extended relatives and you have yourself a serious barbecue. I always come back to New York about ten pounds heavier but it’s worth it. Even now my mouth begins to water thinking of all the food.
“Anyway, Mama, I’ll let you go. I know you probably want to put your rollers in for tomorrow or something. Tell Daddy I said ‘Hi’—and that I’m just fine about the breakup.” That should put a smile on his face.
“Okay, baby, but you call me if you need to, you hear?”
“I will, Mama.”
We say our goodbyes and I’m left with a genuine smile on my face.
It’s moments like these that I miss home. Not enough to move back, mind you—I’m still completely in love with New York City—but it’s enough to have me calling a lot.
I think about the cost of the ticket this year and frown as I put down the phone. “I definitely have to start saving pennies.”
Better start tapping my resources for places to live, more importantly, people to share the rent with.
The thought already has me exhausted.
“I definitely think some moonshine is in order,” I murmur. “With a good, long bath.”
It may be one of the last times I get to have a bathroom that has a tub.
On my way to the kitchen, I hit up Spotify and find the perfect breakup soundtrack for a woman who damn well plans on getting over it, but maybe needs to wallow in some self-righteous anger first.
The first song is Miranda Lambert’s “Mama’s Broken Heart.”
Fitting.
That energizes me into action.
As Miranda’s own Mama councils her on how to act like a lady even when she’s falling apart, I seek out the moonshine, settling on peach pie and pour myself a good dose of the badly needed medicine. I use one of my pink-tinted tumblers so I feel more like a lady and less like a lush.
I drink as I start the water, adding lots of rose-scented bubble bath. While I wait for the tub to fill, I dance as much as my still sore foot will allow and laugh along to the hilarious song.
By the time the bath is full, the moonshine in my glass is half gone, and I’m
