Things feel almost normal again. They’re better than I remember them being in a long time. It feels like I’m living life as the old Dot, back in Stockbridge, before our life collapsed.
My parents go on a date the afternoon of Thanksgiving. They’re overdue; I can’t remember the last time they went out alone. It must have been before Mom became addicted to painkillers. Since we’re having dinner at the Silvermans’ this evening, they decided to go to the movies. Dad told me and Beau to be ready to leave by the time they get back.
When I get out of the shower, I hang some outfit ideas on my clothing rack and rub apple-scented lotion into my damp skin. I’m about to sit at my vanity to put on makeup, but my phone vibrates on my bed. I pick it up, and the name displayed on the screen makes my eyes widen.
Aunt Lucille.Beau must have finally gotten ahold of her.
I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Thank goodness,” she says, through several breathy gasps. “I’m so glad you answered, Bardot.”
I’m ready to tell her my concerns about Mom, but my stomach does a flip at her anxious tone. “Everything okay, Aunty?”
“Well, I sure hope so. It’s taken me days to find my phone, and your mama didn’t even text me to let me know if she made it there safely.”
A surge of relief makes its way through me. “So, you know she’s here.”
“Of course I know.” Her voice lowers. “But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with it, Bardot. Especially after the argument we had right before she walked out my door. And then my phonedisappeared.”
My relief vanishes like smoke evaporating into air. “You got in a fight? You didn’t want her to come here?” I shut my eyes, not wanting to believe what I’m about to ask next. “Did Momhideyour phone, Aunty? So we wouldn’t find out you told her no?”
There’s a pause of silence. “Is your dad around? I should probably be telling this to him.”
“Oh. I’ll, uh, pass the message along.”
Aunt Lucille sighs. “I can’t tell you for sure if she hid my phone, honey. But one thing I do know is that she’s not ready. Too late now, but keep a close eye on her. If she starts getting irritable, lying, acting moody, restless, or off, then you know something’s up. Also, watch out for signs of your mama vomiting or sweating more than usual.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, memories of Mom displaying more than a few of those symptoms flying across my vision. “Okay. Bye.” I hang up the phone.
It’s one thing to worry about Mom’s progress, or have Beau doubt her and insist she’s not well enough to take a break from rehabilitation. It’s another to have Aunt Lucille flat-out confirm our worries and suspicions. After all, she’s the one who’s been around Mom twenty-four-seven, tending to her and helping her with the recovery program.
It hurts to hear. And though I know I’d be foolish to deny her words as truth, I can’t bear to accept them. Not with the play only a week away.
Mom will be fine until then. And she’ll go right back after.
Picking up my phone again, I delete the phone call I just had with my aunt from my call history.
Just in case.
“Opal, do you have my house keys?” Dad asks Mom. He pats his pockets as we get out of the car, parked in front of Zayne’s house. The air is crisp and cool, blowing maple leaves and the scent of pumpkin, coffee, and home-cooked dinner up and around us. The sun is starting to go down, and I grin back at the toothy, rotting jack-o-lantern on Zayne’s front porch.
“Honey, your keys are in my purse, remember?” Mom says. She chuckles at my father and links her arm through mine. “I haven’t had someone cookmeThanksgiving dinner since I was a child. This is going to be so nice.”
“I hope they have cranberry sauce,” Beau says, a note of hope in his voice. Despite his concerns about Mom, I can tell it’s hard for him not to be excited about this evening. I’m trying my best to maintain a positive attitude after talking to Aunt Lucille, because a few months ago the idea of having a family Thanksgiving with Mom home would have seemedunfathomable. Yet, here she is, arm in mine as Beau and Dad follow behind us to the Silverman’s front door.
“I’m sure there will be cranberry sauce,” I tell Beau. “The Silvermans have a restaurant, after all.”
Dad stops walking at our side. He squints at me. “You brought the cider, right Dot?”
“I got it,” says Beau.
Mom reaches over and pats Dad’s shoulder. “Relax, Paul. You’re all wound up.”
His joints seem to loosen under her touch. “Sorry. Just hungry.”
I knock on the front door, the pinecone wreath hanging on it shuddering. Anticipation flutters in my stomach as I hear footsteps approach.
When Zayne opens the door, our eyes lock, and the flutters in my stomach seem to triple. A grin spreads across his lips. “Hi.”
