Chapter 10 - The Woman in the Red Dress
Linda sent the recording that night.
I listened with Jessica beside me.
My mother’s voice came through clearly.
“You misunderstood what happened.”
Linda answered, “I saw you grab her.”
“She was being disrespectful.”
“And Olivia?”
“She’s dramatic like her mother.”
Then Carmen changed tactics.
“I know you’re behind on your car payment.”
Linda went silent.
My mother continued.
“I can help you.”
“With what?”
“Five thousand. Cash.”
“For what?”
“Just explain that the video doesn’t show the full situation.”
Linda asked, “You want me to lie?”
“No. I want you to clarify.”
That word.
Clarify.
A cleaner word for corruption.
Linda pushed.
“What exactly should I say?”
“That Jessica had been screaming at me before you started recording. Say she pulled away and hurt herself.”
“That didn’t happen.”
A pause.
Then Carmen’s voice changed.
“You have children too, Linda. Be careful which family problems you involve yourself in.”
Jessica stopped the recording.
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It does.”
We forwarded everything to the appropriate people handling the disputes.
But the recording did something else.
It destroyed the last excuse I had been quietly carrying.
Until then, part of me still wondered whether my mother had become desperate after being confronted.
Maybe fear had made her lie.
Maybe humiliation had pushed her into bad decisions.
The recording proved something colder.
She was planning.
Calculating.
Buying stories.
She understood exactly what she was doing.
The next morning, Carmen called.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“What?”
Her voice was softer than usual.
“Can we meet?”
“No.”
“Just you and me.”
“No.”
“Zayden, please.”
I almost hung up.
Then she said, “I’m your mother.”
For thirty-four years, that sentence had opened every locked door inside me.
Not this time.
“That doesn’t give you permission to hurt my family.”
“I made mistakes.”
“You reported Jessica to child services.”
“I was worried.”
“You accused me of assault.”
“I was upset.”
“You tried to buy Linda.”
Silence.
There.
She hadn’t known I had the recording.
“What are you talking about?”
“Stop.”
Another silence.
Then:
“She recorded me?”
I said nothing.
My mother’s breathing changed.
“Zayden, people say things when they’re under pressure.”
“You offered her five thousand dollars.”
“I was trying to keep our private business private.”
“You threatened her children.”
“I did not.”
“You’re done.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like some criminal.”
“Then stop behaving like one.”
She hung up.
Three hours later, my aunt Denise called.
“She told us everything.”
“Her version or the truth?”
“This time we heard the recording.”
I frowned.
“How?”
“Linda sent it to me.”
Apparently Linda had reached the same breaking point I had.
Denise sounded shaken.
“Zayden, I owe Jessica an apology.”
“Yes.”
“And Olivia.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
I looked toward Jessica.
“No. I defended Mom longer than anyone.”
Denise exhaled.
“There’s something I never told you.”
I almost laughed.
Apparently my family had been built from sentences like that.
“What?”
“Your father.”
My entire body became still.
“What about him?”
“You remember why he left?”
“Of course.”
My father, Marcus Ferris, left when I was eleven.
Mom said he found another woman.
Stopped caring.
Abandoned us.
He died eight years later after a heart attack in Maryland.
I hadn’t spoken to him in almost two years before his death.
“He didn’t leave because of another woman,” Denise said.
I stood.
“What?”
“Carmen told everyone that. It wasn’t true.”
My mouth went dry.
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“Why would she—”
“They fought constantly. Carmen controlled money. She read his mail. She accused him of cheating every time he worked late.”
I could barely hear her.
“Why didn’t Dad tell me?”
“He tried.”
“No.”
“He wrote.”
“No.”
“Your mother returned his letters.”
I closed my eyes.
“Stop.”
“Zayden…”
“Stop.”
But Denise continued.
“She told him you didn’t want contact.”
I sat down.
Memories flooded back.
Mom crying at the kitchen table.
Mom telling me Dad forgot my birthday.
Mom saying the child-support check was late again.
Mom hugging me and whispering, “At least you’ll never leave your mother like he did.”
I had built half my identity around not being that man.
Not abandoning Carmen.
Not hurting her.
Not becoming my father.
“What happened to the letters?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see them?”
“Some.”
“Where?”
“Carmen kept a box after Marcus died.”
I stared at the floor.
“What kind of box?”
“Brown leather. Brass clasp.”
I had seen it.
Years ago.
When Mom moved into our apartment.
She kept it inside her storage unit because she said it contained old tax documents.
The same storage unit filled with expensive things she bought using our money.
My mother hadn’t only controlled my marriage.
May you like
She may have rewritten my childhood.
And somewhere behind a metal storage door in North Phoenix were letters from a dead man I had spent most of my life believing never wanted me.
