10. Beatrice Sterling
The phone had become a tinnitus in the house. A vibrating hum that persisted in the granite countertops and the polished floorboards. Angel was upstairs. The house was in its optimal state: silent, clean, awaiting Vivian’s next directive. On the seventeenth consecutive call from the same caller ID that day, Vivian reluctantly answered. She did not say hello. She allowed the void of her listening to be the greeting.
“Vivian.” The voice from the other end of the line came through. “We need to talk.”
“You are interrupting my evening.” Vivian’s voice was as cold as ice. She stood at her command post, the kitchen island, facing the black window that showed her own impeccable reflection.
“I’ve seen comments. On the old YouTube videos we made when you were little. People are still visiting our YouTube channel, The Happy Sterling Family. People are asking about Little Vivi. About you. They’re… concerned.”
“Oh. The ‘Happy Sterling Family’. Was that meant sarcastically?” Vivian watched her own lips move in the dark glass. “State your business or I terminate this, Beatrice Sterling.”
“Why don’t you respect me anymore? I am your mother, Vivian! My business is you!” The cry was sharp, then instantly smoothed over, a professional instinct. “I just…I want to understand. Why won’t you let me see my only grandchild?”
“For what?” Vivian thundered, and then hang up the phone.
The kitchen was a vacuum. The phantom vibrations were gone, replaced by a ringing, absolute silence. Vivian placed the phone face down on the granite. Upstairs, Angel sat on the floor of her dark room, her back against the door.
The cheap secret phone in her hand was warm. For three hours, her eyes had been glued to an old YouTube channel. She was now watching a grainy YouTube video from thirty years ago titled “Bloom Where You’re Planted: A Lesson in Resilience with Little Vivi.”
On screen, a woman with a honeyed voice asked a small, tense-looking girl, “And what do you do when you feel sad, sweetheart?” The little girl, her eyes glistening with unshed, unapproved tears, chirped, “I remember I’m planted in love, Mama!”
Downstairs, Vivian picked up the polishing cloth and began to work on a water glass, circling, circling, until it squeaked a song of perfect, sterile cleanness.
