Shockingly, Mom looks a bit of a wreck too. She’s wearing her cardigan inside out, and she’s not wearing a bra. She never leaves the house without a bra on.
“It’s fine. By the way, you have a roller in your hair.”
She emits a small gasp, patting her perfectly coiffed hair before extracting the offending roller. “I stuck a few in while you were sleeping.”
“What were you doing in England?”
Her eyebrows knot together. “Meg’s birthday. You knew that.”
“I did?”
“Of course, you did! Oh, darling, you’re all mixed up. But you’re safe now,” she coos as she sits beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Dopey.”
Like the time I took the mushrooms in Amsterdam; but I leave that little nugget out.
Hauling myself up into a sitting position, I take a generous swig of water. “I can’t remember things. The doctor said I have amnesia.”
“They told me. It’s beyond me, though. How can you just forget a whole year? They must have misdiagnosed you. You know how these doctors are, making blunders left and right. Just last week, I read this horrifying story about—”
“Mom,” I interrupt before she can go down the rabbit hole of the horrors of medical malpractice. “I don’t remember the accident. Do you know why I was at the Plaza Hotel?”
She throws me a disapproving glance. “A work event. Honestly, Lucy, I can’t imagine what you were thinking. Drinking excessively and then tripping down the stairs, in public no less.”
I freeze. Was I really inebriated at a work event? Why on earth would I do that? How mortifying. Hopefully, none of the big wigs saw my swan dive into humiliation.
“Your dad wouldn’t be pleased if he were alive.”
I glare at her. That’s such a shit thing to say.
“Priya mentioned that your behavior has been rather… strange of late,” she adds, an all-knowing look in her eyes.
“Strange how?” I choke out. And why’s Priya snitching to Mom?
“She believed it was due to a guy.”
“A guy?” I sputter, water droplets launching themselves from my lips onto my chin. “I have a guy?” Where is he then! Why isn’t he here mopping my fevered brow with a damp washcloth? “Who is he?”
The cold terror of a significant person in my life that I can’t even recall sends a shudder down my spine.
“You didn’t say anything about it to me, so I can only guess it wasn’t serious,” she says with a dismissive wave. “And really, considering your history, I wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve never had the knack for finding a decent guy to settle down with.”
And there it is. The familiar sting of her unsolicited judgment, less than a quarter-hour after her arrival.
But it sounds about right. Likely, it’s one of those dating app flings that limped into a three-month stint before inevitably petering out. Either the men are too nice or absolute assholes. Like Goldilocks, I can’t find a happy medium.
The hard truth? I’ve never had a serious relationship. It’s a bit embarrassing, really.
Exasperated, I change the subject.
“Mom.” I pin her with a look, pulling together as much seriousness as I can muster in my groggy state. “I need you to fill in some gaps for me. Can you recap this past year for me? What have I been doing?”
My question startles her, panic flitting across her face. “Well, uh… you seemed content, I suppose.”
I wait for more. Come on, Mom, work with me here.
Looks like I’ll have to be more direct.
