Chapter 7 - The Voice Memos of the Desperate
I sat inside Andrew’s truck in the hospital parking garage, the Texas sunset bleeding orange and bruised purple across the horizon. Andrew was in the passenger seat; he had taken the afternoon off to drive down and meet me so I wouldn't have to face the storm alone.
"Ready?" he asked quietly, pointing at the dashboard screen where my phone was connected via Bluetooth.
"Play them," I said.
Andrew tapped the console. The first voicemail began to play.
*BEEP.*
*“Lena?! Lena, pick up the goddamn phone right now!”* Caleb’s voice exploded through the truck's speakers, shrill, cracking with a hysteria I had never heard in him before. *“There are two tow trucks in my driveway! They're hooking up my trailers! Madison is having Braxton Hicks contractions on the front lawn, and the bank just told me our business account is frozen under an elder abuse investigation?! What the hell did you do?! Call me BACK!”*
*BEEP.*
Andrew didn't react. He simply swiped to the next message.
*BEEP.*
*“Lena, honey, please answer.”* It was my mother. Her voice wasn't shrill like Caleb’s; it was that frantic, manipulative, breathy weep she used whenever creditors used to call the house when I was a teenager. *“Your father’s chest is hurting. He’s taking nitroglycerin pills on the couch. The sheriff’s office just served him with a deposition subpoena, Lena! For Clara’s house! They’re saying it’s fraud! How could you do this to your own father? Over a wedding? Is this because we couldn't come to your little party? You’re going to kill your father over a wedding party!”*
"Party," I repeated bitterly, staring out the windshield. "My wedding was a 'party' to her."
"Keep listening," Andrew said softly.
*BEEP.*
*“Lena, this is Madison.”* Caleb’s wife was breathing heavily, her voice shaking with venomous entitlement. *“I am carrying three human lives inside me! Do you understand that?! High-risk! The clinic in Dallas just canceled our 4D ultrasound appointment because our corporate credit card was declined at the front desk! The receptionist announced it in front of the entire waiting room! You are putting my babies' health in jeopardy over your petty jealousy! If anything happens to these boys, their blood is on your hands! Tell your lawyer to call the bank and unlock our account this instant!”*
*BEEP.*
The messages went on and on.
Voicemail #14: My father, his voice gruff, dropping the fatherly facade completely: *“You listen to me, Lena Marie. You pull this filing by tomorrow morning or I will make sure everyone in this family cuts you off until the day you rot. You don't sue your own flesh and blood. You don't involve state investigators in private family business. Clara didn't even know what she was doing. I was managing her assets for the good of this family! You call Harrison Vance and tell him it was a misunderstanding, or so help me God—”*
Andrew reached over and hit the red disconnect button.
The silence inside the truck was suffocating.
"Notice something?" Andrew asked, turning toward me.
"Not a single one asked how I was," I said, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. "Not a single one apologized for skipping my wedding. Not a single one apologized for stealing Grandpa’s eighteen thousand dollars. Not a single one mentioned Grandma Clara’s health."
"They don't see people, Lena," Andrew said, his voice deadly calm. "They see utility. You were the utility bill payer. Grandma was the collateral. Caleb is the showpiece. And Madison is the production company."
My phone buzzed again.
A text message from an unknown number.
*“This is Aunt Brenda. I don’t know what kind of demonic spirit has gotten into you, Lena, but turning the state against your own parents while Madison is eight months pregnant with triplets is unforgivable. God will hold you accountable for the destruction of this family.”*
I stared at the screen. Aunt Brenda. The same aunt who had taken four days off work to go drink margaritas on the beach in Destin for the gender reveal, but claimed she couldn't make my wedding because her cat had an ear infection.
I tapped the screen and typed my first response of the entire day:
*“Dear Aunt Brenda: If you are so concerned about the family’s financial survival, Caleb’s equipment loan balance is $65,000, and Grandma’s forged HELOC is $175,000. Feel free to pay it on their behalf. Otherwise, lose my number.”*
I hit send.
Then I turned off my phone completely.
"Where are we going?" I asked Andrew.
May you like
"To our house," Andrew said, putting the truck in reverse. "Because knowing your family, voicemails and texts are just the opening act. When narcissists lose their supply, they don't retreat. They escalate."
***
