Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [68]
She nods to herself, showing the tiniest hint of pride. The chase with Janos pulled her down a few pegs. She’s still trying to climb her way back up. Too bad for Viv, the next call will only make it harder.
As the phone rings on the other line, I already see the change in her posture. She lowers her chin, ducking down just slightly. Her toes turn inward, one shoe picking at the tip of the other. As her hand grips the receiver, she again glances at me and turns away. I know a call for help when I see one.
I hit the button for the speakerphone just as a female voice picks up on the other line. Viv looks down at the red light marked Speaker. This time, she doesn’t shut it off.
“Doctor’s office,” a female voice answers.
“Hey, Momma, it’s me,” Viv says, forcing the same amount of bubbliness through the phone. Her tone is pitch perfect—even better than the last call.
“What’s wrong?” her mom asks.
“Nothing . . . I’m great,” Viv says as she leans her left hand against the desk. She’s already having trouble standing up. Two minutes ago, she was seventeen, going on twenty-seven. Now she’s barely thirteen.
“Why’m I on speakerphone?” Mom asks.
“You’re not, Momma; it’s a cell phone that’s—”
“Take me off speaker—y’know I hate it.”
Viv looks my way, and I instinctively step back. She hits the button marked Speaker, and the call leaves the room. The good news is, thanks to the volume of Mom’s voice, I can still hear her through the receiver.
Earlier, I said we shouldn’t make this call. Now we have to. If Mom pulls the fire alarm, we’re not going anywhere.
“Better,” Mom says. “Now, whatsa matter?”
There’s real concern in her voice. Sure, Mom’s loud . . . but not from anger . . . or bossiness. Senator Stevens has the same tone. That sense of immediacy. The sound of strength.
“Tell me what happened,” Mom insists. “Someone make another comment?”
“No one made a comment.”
“What about that boy from Utah?”
I can’t place Mom’s accent—part southern Ohio drawl, part broad vowels of Chicago—but whatever it is, when I close my eyes . . . the intonations . . . the speed of each syllable . . . it’s like hearing Viv twenty years in the future. Then I open my eyes and see Viv hunched over from the stress. She’s got a long way to go.
“What about the Utah boy?” Mom persists.
“That boy’s an ass—”
“Vivian . . .”
“Momma, please—it isn’t a cuss. They say ass on every dumb sitcom on TV.”
“So now you live in a sitcom, huh? Then I guess your sitcom mom will be the one paying your bills and taking care of all your problems.”
“I don’t have problems. It was one comment from one boy . . . The proctors took care of it . . . It’s fine.”
“Don’t let them do that to you, Vivian. God says—”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Don’t let them—”
“Mom!”
Mom pauses—a triple-length pause only a mother can give. All the love she has for her daughter—you can tell she’s dying to scream it through the phone . . . but she also knows that strength isn’t easily transferred. It has to be found. From within.
“Tell me something about the Senators,” Mom finally says. “They ask you to write any legislation yet?”
“No, Mom, I haven’t written any legislation yet.”
“You will.”
It’s hard to explain, but the way she says it, even I believe her.
“Listen, Momma . . . the only reason I’m calling . . . they’re taking us on an overnight to Monticello . . . Thomas Jefferson’s home . . .”
“I know what Monticello is.”
“Yeah, well . . . anyway, I didn’t want you fretting when you called and we weren’t here.” Viv stops, waiting to see if Mom buys it. We both hold our breath.
“I told you they’d take you up there, Viv—I saw pictures in the old brochure,” Mom says, clearly excited. And just like that, it’s done.
“Yeah . . . they do it every year,” Viv adds. There’s a sudden sadness in her voice. Almost as if she wished it weren’t that easy. She glances up at the poster on the wall. We all have our mountains to climb.
“So when you coming back?”
“I think tomorrow night,” Viv says, checking with me. I shrug and nod at the same time. “Yeah . . . tomorrow night,” she adds.
“Don