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 nearlychoke. 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 maître 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 ofReal 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 secrecyruns. 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 someMission: 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.
