Five
Josie
In the Uber on the way home, I take a minute to think about that foolish, ridiculous, delicious, impulsive kiss. Savor it a little before the embarrassment inevitably swoops in. My cheeks flush, remembering how I was the one to reach for Axe. Twice!
I bring my fingertips to my swollen lips. I left for this party thinking about the Wheel of Fortune card, and now I’m coming home wondering if it had a certain blue-eyed Scotsman written all over it.
No. No. Absolutely not. This is Axe MacKenzie we’re talking about. Even if he did rescue me from that deranged creep, one sweetly heroic moment doesn’t wipe out a whole year of his premium-grade dickishness. I’m not about to let myself get sucked in by his superhero rescue or his hot-guy magic and cheeky banter.
I’m usually smarter than mistaking temporary lust for something more. What was I thinking? This has got to be some leftover Bryan-breakup nonsense. Me grasping for a shiny new distraction.
Pathetic.
As the Uber turns the corner onto my street, the bottom drops out of my stomach with a nauseating thud. Crap. All the lights areon at my parents’ house. What did I expect? I’m almost never out past midnight. Still, I hope if I’m stealthy enough I can sneak up to my above-the-garage apartment without anyone noticing me.
“Oh, thank God!” Mom says, scaring the shit out of me as she practically tackles me the moment I open my front door.
She pulls back, eyes wide as teacups.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask, and then immediately temper my tone. My mother has full access to my tiny apartment because she owns it. I might be twenty-six years old, but that doesn’t stop her from monitoring my entire life. And maybe that’s my fault, because I can’t seem to officially launch.
I can tell by the look on her face that MamaBearSharon is ready for the Spanish Inquisition.
“Sweetheart, you look off. Is that lipstick on your chin? What happened? Are you okay? What’s your blood sugar?”
Time to code switch into JosieFightsOn mode. That was the social media handle Mom made up when they first found my childhood leukemia. She was a total warrior back then, launching GoFundMe campaigns, organizing bake sales, silent auctions, charity runs—our house was Fundraiser Central. She made me feel protected with her endless research and updates on clinical trials. We used to joke that she should have a medical degree from WebMD.
With her support, my fight felt communal.
I wasn’t—have never been—alone.
So I get why she can’t sleep until I’m safely home. Why she needs to actually see my face before heading off to her own bed. When you’ve faced too many close calls with your only child, you don’t just turn that worry off.
She always says I won’t understand her fear or her fierce, unrelenting love until I’m a mother myself. That being a mom is likehaving your heart walk around outside your body. And in my case, it’s even harder, because that heart’s already been strained by so much stress.
“Mom, I’m fine.” She puts the back of her hand to my forehead, like she’s certain I’m running a fever. “Long night, that’s all.” I force myself to channel my best JosieFightsOn energy. I used that same chirpy tone in the weekly video updates during chemo, keeping the followers fed with positivity. I’ve mastered smiling through pain and playing the perfect patient.
And on the flip side, Mom knows how to be the perfect caretaker. As MamaBearSharon, she became known on social media, offering guidance and support, in person and online, to her thousands of followers facing their own children’s grim diagnoses. Having been through the worst with me, she was determined to pay it forward.
But tonight, despite how weird the evening has been—the terrifying lobotomy lab, my encounter with the handsy psycho Freddy Krueger, that unexpected moment with Axe—I don’t need to pretend that I’m all right; I actually am.
“You look like you could use a bath. Upstairs into the tub, young lady! I’ll meet you up there.”
“Okay, okay.” I roll my eyes but head upstairs, peeling away the scraps of my mummy outfit as I go. My mother and I don’t always have that much in common, but we both love nothing more than a good, long soak. As I reach the bathroom, I can hear her clattering around, likely getting fresh towels and dry clothes.
Privacy and boundaries have never been Mom’s strong suit, and I’ve only been relaxing for five minutes when she bursts in. She holds a fluffy towel and an old T-shirt I thought I’d given away to the Salvation Army years ago, along with my soft cotton Minnie Mouse underpants.
Where in the world does she store these things? And why?
“Mom, you really don’t need to…” I start, but she’s already putting down the lid on the toilet, sitting so she can give my naked body the up-and-down. She methodically checks for unexplained dark bruises, for little lesions, for new lumps. I can’t blame her. My body has always been like a terrible science experiment. She’s had to call 911 for me too many times to count—because of anaphylactic shock, a sudden plummet in blood pressure, fainting, etc., etc.
As a patient, I was consistently “atypical,” always experiencing the sort of unlikely, terrible side effects you hear about in that low, quick voice in drug commercials.
Mom’s checks are responsible, reasonable, and a hard habit to break. Even if they feel dehumanizing. Ironically, this “healthy” stretch has been tougher for my mom and me to navigate. Sometimes, it feels like we don’t know how to talk unless it’s about medicine, doctors, supplements, blood test results, or—her favorite topic—my recovery. She celebrates my yearly scans like other moms celebrate birthdays.
I sigh but give her a small smile as I sink farther into the tub.
“When you’re ready to come down, I’ll make some tea. I want to hear all about the party.” Mom sounds overly bright, and her voice is the hearing equivalent of looking into terrible fluorescent lighting.
