My Kind of Country

Chapter Seven

Somehow, I'd been under the mistaken impression that after committing career suicide by burning bridges with the recording studio, my life couldn't get any worse. I'd thought that I had hit rock bottom, at least for now, and would be able to focus on finishing school and letting things cool down. Sadly, I had been wrong. So very, very wrong. 

It all started with a phone call from my mother. That in and of itself probably doesn't sound too bad, but to be fair, you've never met my mother. The woman is pretty much the epitome of an overbearing Southern matriarch. Oh, sure, she seems sweet as sweet tea, but beneath those sugary smiles and charming southernisms is a stubborn, opinionated woman hellbent on offering unsolicited advice on everything I'm doing wrong with my life--basically, any decision I make that she doesn't agree with. 

There's no reasoning with her, either. Believe me, I've tried. Anything I say is met with, "But I only want what's best for you, Sugar," or, "Well, bless your heart." And, nice as "Bless your heart" sounds, it's the Southern belle's way of saying, "Well, aren't you a special kind of stupid," while maintaining the appearance of proper decorum. 

I had fled the state of Georgia, even if it was only four hours away to Tennessee, in a bid to escape my mother's meddling. After three years of college, I was still waiting for her to get the memo that I needed space. Apparently, me telling her as much point blank, avoiding her daily phone calls, and only going home to visit for holidays had been insufficient to get the point across. 

And, I'd been forced to compromise on the ignoring phone calls issue two weeks into my freshman year of college, when Momma had called the police and tried to have an officer sent to my dorm room to check on me. Sure, she'd allegedly wanted to ensure that I hadn't been abducted or something, since she hadn't heard from me, and "Why else would I be ignoring her phone calls?". But honestly, I suspected she'd just wanted to embarrass me into compliance. 

It had worked. After the police incident had been squared away, I had agreed to talk to her every Monday morning, come hell or high water, so that she could check up on me and verify that I was still alive. That didn't mean I looked forward to our phone calls, though. 

This morning, I was dreading the phone call more than usual. I had spent most of yesterday afternoon working through the stages of grief. I had bypassed denial, worked my way through my anger at Chase, bargained my way through dozens of 'What if' scenarios, and landed squarely in the depression stage, where I was currently wallowing in self-pity. I was lying prostrate in my bed, surrounded by empty ice cream pints and chocolate wrappers (I was an emotional eater) when my cellphone rang. 

At seven o'clock in the morning, that could only be one person: my mother. Only she was crazy enough to call at such an obscenely early hour on a Monday morning. 

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to her. Talking to my mother while depressed was akin to swimming with sharks when you had a wound that was gushing blood. It could only lead to pain and carnage. Unfortunately, ignoring the call was not an option. That would tip off her mother's intuition that something was off and make an already difficult conversation pretty much impossible. 

"Hi, Momma," I chirped, answering the phone. 

"Mia Evangeline Reynolds, you'd better start talking right now," Momma barked. "You have two minutes to explain yourself before I give you a what for."

I gulped, genuinely baffled by her outrage. My mother was always gruff and authoritative, but nothing like this. 

Shaking my head, I heaved out a long breath. I did not have the patience for this today. "Momma, I have no idea what you're talking about."