“Hiding is a strong word, dear,” she tells me as she opens the fridge and takes out my Friday-post-shitty-week beer. “And I hide nothing from Tara.”
Low blow. But I shan’t be distracted.
“Is it? I just saw you sitting shotgun in an ugly green Taurus. You haven’t been in a car since I dragged you into my back seat when your appendix burst.”
I point to the beer and she slides it across the counter.
“I’ve been seeing a cognitive behavioral therapist,” she tells me.
We both twist open our drinks at the same time. The sound of released pressure pops and then fizzes in the space between us.
So many questions. But first, a sweet punch of joy. This is the biggest win since the Phillies took the pennant. My mother not only left the house, she left the house with a goddamned licensed professional.
“This is amazing news,” I tell her.
She nods and gives me a small smile.
“I’ve gotten to the 7-11 by the old Blockbuster,” she murmurs.
“Inside of it!?”
Another small nod.
“Holy shit, Mom. I’m so proud of you.” I lift my beer and she lets out a breath and clinks the rim against mine.
“My goal is to get to Tara’s with you in the spring,” she tells me, and I notice the glassy determination in her eyes for the first time.
“When did—how did you find this cognitive?—?”
She walks away, cutting me off midsentence, and calls over her shoulder, “Gotta get changed!”
And just like that I know. I know how she found help—or how help found her.
This was Jeff’s doing.
I run after her, my clumsy footsteps stumbling up the stairs as she doesn’t even miss a beat.
“Jeff sent her, didn’t he?”
My mom’s hands go up.
“Mom, just tell me?—”
She whirls on me.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Devon? You’re a big girl. And he’s obviously worth the text message.”
Uh oh. She’s using the same tone she used on me when she found cigarettes in my Altoid tin in ninth grade. Ingenious hiding spot, I know.
I look down at the grey carpet that runs through the upstairs hallway. I can’t.
“I can’t,” I whisper at my feet.
I can feel her staring at me like two hot pokers are being stuck into the top of my head.
“You can’t,” she repeats. But there is no anger this time. Her arms go around me and I let myself sink into her hug. She gives the best mom hugs. “You know, Ican’tleave the house, but I just tasted all the Slurpee flavors at 7-11. So sometimes can’t just isn’t the right word.”
I sigh into her shoulder. Mom wisdom is the worst. I’m about to ask her if they had blue raspberry when I hear the front door open and close below us.
