Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Josie
“You look pale,” my mother announces the moment she opens the door. Not Hello or Sorry about yesterday. Not even I’ll never forgive you.
How could I be pale? I slept for thirteen hours and slathered on enough self-tanner to look borderline orange.
Turned out the stomach bug, awful as it was, was nothing.
Here one day, gone the next. Mom, on the other hand, looks all bouncy and polished like she just rolled out of a luxury salon, with her “red” hair freshly tinted, and she’s sporting fresh nail extensions that are definitely not from Nailed It, where she works, but from one of those upscale spots downtown.
“Well, I promise you, I am fine,” I insist, flashing a grin. “Look, I’m so good I made you a lemon cake. When life gives you lemons…ba-dum-bump.”
She takes the cake with a neutral nod. “Thanks.”
“About yesterday, I’m sorry—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“It’s just that when I see you out and about when you should be in bed, I worry,” she scolds. “I’m a mom, Josie. That’s what moms do. And then I was shoved away from you like a criminal.”
“I was working, and I asked you politely to leave.”
“I don’t like this new job of yours. Axe MacKenzie is notorious around here. His takeover of the old Merchants Exchange Building left a lot of people without jobs.”
“That place had been closed for years! He brought jobs to Shelton, Mom. Lots of them.”
“Well, if he’s so smart, he should have seen that you were unfit to be working. Even if you’re just a personal assistant.”
I wince. That’s the lie I told her when I got the job. My confidence wavers. Mom has always diagnosed me before the doctors, like some hyper-attuned therapy dog. What does she see that I don’t? “How are you doing, Mom?”
She pouts and shrugs. “Fine.” It’s all I’m going to get. “Come sit and have a cup of tea. It’ll put some color in your cheeks. I already made breakfast.”
It’s a truce, if only a fragile one. I sit before a plate heaped with scrambled eggs and microwaved bacon.
Though my stomach’s settled, it’s too early for such a feast. But I won’t show weakness.
I pick up my fork. She pours me tea—bitter and medicinal, but at least it’s iced.
Mom fancies herself an herbalist, and she’s always pushing us (unsuccessfully, so far) to sell her teas at Grace & Honor.
“Where’s Alan?” I ask.
“Bryan’s with him. He likes keeping the old man company. Very sweet of him, don’t you think?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Bryan’s an asshole,” I say, “and he’s probably getting Alan to put money in his fantasy ice hockey league. His main revenue stream these days.”
“Language, Josie Marie.” Her voice cracks like a whip as if I’m ten again. “Alan took care of you. So did Bryan.”
“And now I can take care of myself!” My voice is shrill. Now I sound and feel like a defensive teenager.
“I think you should make a checkup appointment with Dr. Don. Just to be sure.”
My rage kicks up a notch, my pulse gone rogue.
Dr. Don, my longtime pediatric oncologist. He was the only one who ever understood my medical maze, so he stayed on as my primary care doctor even after I entered adulthood.
I owe him for saving my life multiple times, but I can’t stand the man.
Silver hair, round blue eyes like marbled ice.
He delivered bad news with the grin of a clown at a child’s birthday party.
And then there was his treatment. His “special drink” he called it.
Some concoction he’d mix up and serve in a paper cup and watch me swallow “for strength.” Though all it ever did was make me groggy.
I hated the taste. Hated him more for making me drink it.
No way. I haven’t seen that guy in years.
“There’s absolutely no reason to book an appointment with Dr. Don.”
I make surprisingly good progress on my eggs and bacon—amazing what a desperation to get out of here can do—and sip the tea without gagging.
This kitchen looks different, I realize. There’s a throw rug under the table, and is that a new coffee machine?
“Should I tell Bryan you’ll call him? It would be nice!” Mom shouts out to me a little while later when I’ve finally escaped the house and am climbing into my car.
“Nope!” I sing back cheerfully. No reason to engage. I’m not going to go ham on my mother for being so fucking clueless.
“Let me at least make an appointment with Dr. Don.”
“Nope!” I sing again in full JosieFightsOn sunshine warmth.
Once I’ve closed my door, I double-check that Bryan is still blocked on my phone. Then I block Dr. Don’s office, too. I feel all the fake goodwill seep from my body as my hands curl into fists.
—
On the drive home, I let it all out, saying every single thing I swallowed back at breakfast. Poor Gertrude’s used to these rants by now.
Behind the wheel is one of the few places I can actually drop the whole JosieFightsOn bullshit and just admit that, yeah, everything’s not fine.
I’m mid–yelling out loud about my mother—and when will she start treating me like a grown-up?
!—when vertigo hits hard and fast. Up flips to down, down to up.
My brain feels like Disney’s spinning teacups, only this is real, and I’m in danger.
Are my hands still on the wheel? Why is this happening?
The traffic light ahead blurs into a red halo.
I slam on the brakes, a loud squeal pierces my ears, and I brace for impact.