Chapter 13 - The Bailout Demand
By seven o'clock the following morning, my phone had turned into a vibrating landmine.
The local arrest blotter had posted Evelyn’s mugshot at sunrise: disheveled hair, tear-streaked mascara running down her sagging cheeks, and a look of pure, unadulterated hatred radiating from her eyes. The charges were listed in bold black print: Violation of Domestic Protective Order, Criminal Trespass, Assault on a Government Official.
I was in the kitchen brewing a pot of dark roast coffee while Clara mashed banana slices onto the tray of her high chair when the first call came in.
It was Aunt Brenda.
I hadn't spoken a single word to my mother's eldest sister since she sent me that barrage of self-righteous texts during the initial house dispute over a year ago. I answered, putting the phone on speaker while keeping my hands busy wiping down the marble counter.
"Jocelyn," Brenda barked, her shrill, condescending tone instantly filling the room. "Have you completely lost your mind? Your mother spent the entire night on a concrete floor in the county holding tank! She has high blood pressure! Her arthritis is flaring up! Do you realize what kind of animals they put in those holding cells?"
"Good morning to you too, Aunt Brenda," I replied calmly, pouring coffee into a ceramic mug. "I assume you're calling to explain why you didn't offer her your spare guest room in Raleigh when Greg walked out on her?"
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "That is entirely beside the point! Brenda and Uncle David are downsizing! We do not have room for extended houseguests! But you—you have an entire suburban four-bedroom palace that you purchased with money you tore from your mother’s hands!"
"I purchased this house with my own income, Brenda," I corrected coldly. "And the money Krista and I recovered was our late father’s estate, which Evelyn fraudulently stole and hoarded for eight years. Or did she forget to mention that detail in her tearful family updates?"
"I don't care about the past!" Brenda snapped, her voice rising into an irritated screech. "What matters is the present! The magistrate set her cash bond at seven thousand five hundred dollars because she threw a fit in front of the judge! They won't release her on personal recognizance because of the prior trespass warning on your property!"
"Then I suggest you write a check, Aunt Brenda."
"I don't have seven thousand dollars lying around for legal fees!" Brenda roared. "You are the one who called the police! You are the one who pressed these ridiculous charges! You need to go down to the courthouse right now, drop the complaint, and pay her bail! She is your mother! In the eyes of the Lord, you are bound to honor her!"
I paused, setting my mug onto the granite island. The familiar sting of family guilt tried to claw at my chest, but I looked at Clara, who was giggling at a speck of sunlight dancing on her sippy cup. My duty was to protect this child from the generational poison that had suffocated my entire youth.
"Aunt Brenda, listen to me very carefully," I said, my voice dropping to a measured, lethal whisper. "Evelyn came to my home in violation of a court order. She brought strangers to my doorstep. She physically assaulted a law enforcement officer on my front porch while my daughter slept inside. I will not drop the charges. I will testify at her preliminary hearing. And if you call this number one more time to intimidate or harass me, my attorney will add your name to an auxiliary restraining order by noon."
"You wouldn't dare—"
May you like
"Try me," I said, and severed the connection.
I immediately blocked Brenda’s number, followed by Uncle David’s and three other cousins who had already begun texting links to bible verses about filial obedience. The walls of my sanctuary would not be breached by guilt.
