Blind Submission by Debra Ginsberg

and I headed back to my desk, where there were several more demanding tasks screaming for my attention.

    WHEN I GOT HOME, there were two notes and the still-unopened pinot noir from the night before sitting next to my telephone. The first one, slid under the bottle, said,
Drink me, I deserve it.
The second was scrawled with my mother’s name, Hillary, and a phone number. I didn’t recognize the area code, but I picked up my phone and dialed it, anyway. It rang five times before my mother picked it up and breathed, “Greetings,” into the receiver. I could barely hear her. It sounded as if a hurricane were blowing across the line.
    â€œHillary!” I shouted. “Where are you?” One of the very first things my mother had taught me was to call her by her name and not by any modification of the word
mother.
I’d never even thought of her as
Mom.
    â€œIs that my Angel?” she sang into the phone. “Hello, darling.”
    â€œWhere are you?” I repeated.
    â€œI’m in the most beautiful place, Angel. You really have to come here. You must come. It’s gorgeous. Trees and fresh air and—”
    â€œBut
where
?” I persisted.
    â€œNear…it’s near Seattle, Angel. Is that so important?”
    â€œWell, it certainly would be if you wanted me to come visit,” I said. “Everything okay? I haven’t heard from you for a while, Hillary, I was starting to worry.” This wasn’t nearly the first time I had taken the mother role on the phone with mine. Nor, I suspected, would it be the last.
    â€œDarling, don’t you know by now that I will always be fine? Have a little faith, daughter. How are you?”
    â€œI’m fine. Actually, I’m good. I just got a great job, Hillary. I’m working with Lucy Fiamma—she’s a literary agent. I’m sure I must have mentioned…. Do you remember
Cold!
?”
    â€œWhat? No, it’s not at all cold here, Angel. Look, honey, I have to tell you something. I’ve found the most wonderful group of women. They are descended from actual
Amazons,
can you believe it? Anyway, we’re planning a ritual cleansing, sort of a female sweat-lodge type of thing, and I would really like you to join us, Angel. You need to get in touch with your inner Amazon.”
    The only Amazon I was likely to get in touch with was the dot-com version, but there was no way of telling my mother this without sounding sarcastic and faithless. Sooner or later she always found the Wiccans, eco-feminists, or sculptors disappointing and moved on, but while she was in the throes of community ecstasy, there was nothing I or anyone else could say to dim her enthusiasm.
    â€œHillary, did you hear what I said about my new job?”
    â€œWhat new job, sweetie?”
    â€œI’m working for a literary agent,” I almost yelled into the phone.
    â€œTerrific!” A rush of static filled the phone and her next words were partially drowned out. All I heard was, “…to take care of yourself.”
    â€œWhat? I can’t hear you, Hillary.”
    â€œListen, honey, I have to go to a goddess meeting now. I’m running out as we speak. But I really want you to come up here, Angel. It’s important. I’ll call you later, okay? We can talk more then.”
    â€œHillary—” I began, but she was already gone. I tried to imagine what a goddess meeting might entail, but stopped myself when I started envisioning a grotesque ceremony involving menstrual blood. Well, she was okay. That was good at least.
    I looked at the bottle of wine, fighting an urge to open it and drink it down. I wished Malcolm were beside me and took immediate comfort in the knowledge that he’d be showing up soon. The last two days had worn me down and talking to my mother had just polished me off. Malcolm, I thought, would make a perfect balm. I’d be ready for him when he arrived, I thought. But first