Chapter Forty-Two
Forty-Two
Josie
For the first time in my life, I use the Find My iPhone tracker on my mom.
She linked our accounts a while back, and I never gave it a second thought.
Suddenly, everything clicks into place. Like why she hasn’t been bugging me for my new address.
She must already have it. How she knew to find me at the farmers market with Axe that day.
The fact that she could always track me down never felt sinister until right now. Suddenly, it feels downright terrifying.
What else has she been lying about?
I follow the little blue dot and see she’s at the Keystone Hotel. Weird.
I hop in Gertrude and speed across town, kicking myself for not taking the Mini. I would’ve been there way faster if the engine hadn’t shorted out three times on the way. Normally, I don’t yell at Gertrude—she’s been through everything with me—but today, I’m so done.
“Goddammit, you have one job, Gertie! One job!” I bang the steering wheel and accidentally knock my turn signal, which somehow falls off into my hand.
This morning’s card—the Five of Wands—predicted mayhem, but I hoped it’d be the zany variety.
Like maybe I’d notice my dress was on inside out, or a butterfly would land in my hair.
I’m starting to get mighty sick of my own baseless optimism. This day has been one big shit sandwich, start to finish.
—
I pull up to the valet parking at the Keystone and throw my keys at the attendant. He looks at my car, and though he doesn’t say it, I see it written all over his face: Are you sure you’re at the right hotel, lady?
At my dark look, he decides against saying anything.
I’ve never stepped foot inside this place before.
It’s a world apart from the rest of Shelton.
The lobby is cavernous, its ceiling soaring at least three stories high, supported by white marble columns that gleam under the chandelier’s soft light.
Low blue velvet couches are arranged with precise symmetry, like something out of a design magazine.
Do people even sit here, or is it all just for show?
At the back of the lobby, I spot a sleek rectangular bar, its shelves artfully arranged with glass bottles that seem more decorative than practical, each one placed like an exhibit in a museum. I scan the area but don’t see my mother.
Oh shit, could Mom be holed up in one of these guest rooms? Is she cheating on Alan? I mean, I’m not exactly Team Alan, but still, I kind of assumed they were blissfully boring together. I always figured Mom was the faithful type.
Then again, I also thought she was still working at Nailed It, so my Mom radar is clearly out of sync.
There’s a restaurant off to the left called Seraphine.
Fancy as hell. I glance at the gold-foil menu in a glass case and nearly choke.
A $150 tasting menu? Yeah, no. This place is so out of Mom’s price range.
Alan’s retired, and now that I know she’s not pulling a paycheck from the salon, I think it’s safe to say they’re not splashing out on Wagyu.
“May I help you?” the host asks. His suit is tailored like it was made with only him in mind. This whole place is a far cry from Cheesecake Factory–casual.
“I’m looking for someone,” I say. I’m dressed for a normal workday at Grace & Honor, an oversized cream sweater, distressed jeans, and a stack of thin bangle bracelets that Nonna bought me a while back. I tighten my ponytail, like that’ll make me look more like I blend in here.
“Do you have a reservation?” He raises an eyebrow, and I’m just about to beg him to let me take one quick lap to see if I spot my mom—and then I notice it.
On the ground.
Two tables over.
The fucking tote bag with my printed bald head.
Only now do I realize how insane it was that my cancer—my cancer!—had a goddamn merch line.
I storm past the ma?tre d’ and walk right up to the table that holds six women, including Mom.
Each has a rare steak plated in front of her, and my mother is wielding her knife as she talks.
Her back is turned. She hasn’t seen me yet, but I recognize her cheetah blouse—it’s her date-night top—and her dyed-red hair, pulled up into a claw clip like it’s the nineties, anywhere.
“Right, which is why it’s so important to give. We know how hard this can be. All of us. Firsthand,” she’s saying as I approach.
“Mom!” I snap and she drops her knife with a loud clatter.
“Josie? What are you doing here?” She looks up at me through false eyelashes so thick it’s a wonder she can see.
“What’s going on?” My voice is sharp, fueled by an anger that’s been simmering beneath the surface. Six years—six years of lies.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Mom says, her voice as sweet as the glass of sparkling rosé in front of her.
Around the table, the middle-aged women exude a polished elegance—diamond-ringed fingers, buttery highlights—like it’s a brand-new season of Real Housewives of Shelton.
Mom, by comparison, looks out of place, her outfit and energy more desperate than glamorous.
“Let’s talk later. Now is not the time.”
“Mom!” I demand, not backing down. Needing answers. Needing truth.
“Josie, this is a support group for mothers whose kids have or have had cancer. Please give us our privacy.” She calmly takes a sip of her wine and smiles up at me. “I know you are used to things being about you. But this is about us, for once.”
I have no words. It’s true that my mom’s life has always revolved around my health, and I’ve always felt guilty about that.
Whenever I was given a treatment plan, the doctor would, after delivering the bad news, turn to my mother and ask if she had her own proper support.
They’d remind her that caretakers need to take care of themselves, too.
She’d weakly smile up at them, her face streaked with tears, and say, “Yes, Alan is my rock.” And I’d think, Alan? Really?
“Mrs. Basso’s fifteen-year-old, Stacey, is in remission.
Isn’t that the best news? You remember Mrs. Basso?
” Mom nods toward a woman at the end of the booth, and I can’t even look.
Shame floods me. These women have gone through hell, and here I am, causing drama over…
what, exactly? My mom’s probably got her own trauma from all my near-death experiences.
But standing here, I’m also hit with how deep Mom’s secrecy runs.
It feels like a punch to the gut, like I’ve been shut out of this entire part of her life.
She feels like a stranger, someone whose private world I’ve never been allowed to see.
Why did she pretend to keep working at Nailed It? It makes zero sense.
“I’m sorry to bother you all,” I say to my feet. I’m wearing sneakers. Sneakers in Seraphine! “Have a great afternoon.” I turn on my heel and start to walk away as the women start chattering behind me.
“She looks so healthy!” one woman exclaims.
“That beautiful hair!” another adds.
And just as I reach the door, I swear I hear Mom’s voice, faint and smug: “It’s a wig.”
—
In a heated daze, I whip Gertrude to my parents’ house. Alan’s home, and based on the smell wafting through the kitchen, he’s making his signature atrocity: salmon mac and cheese.
“Just me!” I yell, stepping inside. “Getting some of my old clothes for Goodwill.” I book it up the back stairs, trying not to sound like I’m pulling some Mission: Impossible–style snooping.
My mother used to tell me spooky ghost stories about this attic, probably to keep me from coming up here.
Even now, I’m still a little scared, rubbing my arms with my opposite hands as my eyes search the room.
There it is—the old filing cabinet where Mom kept all the records. My heart pounding, I judder open a drawer and grab as many files and folders as will fit into my envelope bag.
Downstairs, Alan’s come out of the kitchen to roadblock me. His eyes are narrowed, and the spatula in his grip looks melted—Alan goes through spatulas like Kleenex.
My face turns bright, guilty red.
“Find what you’re looking for?” he asks. “Your mother won’t like you messing around up in the attic.”
“Yeah, I just needed some of my old W-9 forms. For work.”
“I thought you said you were getting clothes?”
Oh, crap. “That, too. But, uh, I couldn’t find any, so…”
“Your poor mother. Radio silence from you for weeks, then you barge in here—”
I sniff. “What’s burning?”
“Oh, for God’s sake—hang on a sec.” He dives back into the kitchen, and I seize my chance to dash, feeling like a middle schooler caught cheating in class. But I’ve got a hunch these files might bring me closer to Mom’s secrets.
On the drive home, my hands are shaking on the wheel, my stomach twisting. What is my mom hiding from me? Where is she getting extra money to dine out at five-star restaurants for lunch? What else is she not telling me about her life?
I need to understand now.
I run into my apartment and make a beeline for the kitchen, clutching my bag. I’m full-body trembling as I dump the files onto the counter. At least it’s a place to start.
What happened to me? Was I even sick six years ago? Do I have my own timeline wrong?
No doubt I’ve blocked out the worst parts of my childhood. Mostly on purpose, but maybe my unconscious brain did some of it on its own, too. Like, doesn’t everyone try to move past their trauma? What’s the point of reliving your worst moments just to burn them deeper into your amygdala?
The questions circle like vultures in my head.
I need to understand the real story of my childhood.
This is it. No turning back now.