Page 27

She glances up, and for a terrifying second, her expression is blank. Then something shifts behind her green eyes and recognition flickers to life.

“Lily! Oh honey, come sit.” She pats the chair beside her.

Relief crashes over me so hard I almost stumble. Mom was older when she had me, though it was never a big deal. By most standards, now at sixty-three, she should be perfectly healthy, but the disease has progressed enough that she needs constant care to keep herself safe. It would have been too dangerous to leave her at home where she frequently left the stove on or forgot to turn off the water. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying right here in front of her. Good days are precious, and I’m not about to waste this one falling apart.

“What are you working on?” I settle into the chair, studying the puzzle. It’s a mountain landscape that’s pretty, but not nearly as pretty as the views in Big Ridge.

“Five hundred pieces.” She picks up a corner piece, turning it this way and that. “The sky is giving me trouble.”

“I think I can help with that.” We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. It’s almost like everything is fine. Just mother and daughter working a puzzle together on a lazy afternoon.

“How’s work, sweetheart?” She slots a piece into place with satisfaction.

“Really good, actually.” A lie, but I’ll say anything to keep this peace. “Busy.” A truth. I’m obnoxiously busy.

“That’s wonderful. You always were so driven.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m so proud of you.”

My throat closes up. I squeeze back as my phone buzzes against the table right as the song switches to a hit from when I was in high school.

“Sorry, let me turn that off.” I glance at the screen. It’s Tom. Crap. “Mom, I have to take this, but I’ll be quick.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

I step into the hallway, forcing my voice into professional mode. “Hi, Mr. Wilson.” I try to pay attention as best I can, but my mind is pulled toward Mom. The call takes longer than expected and by the time I get back to Mom’s room, she’s finished the edges.

“Sorry about that.” I slide back into my chair, reaching for a piece that looks like it might be part of a tree.

The radio cycles to another song I recognize from my teenage years, and I chuckle. “I love this song.”

“I know you do.” Mom looks up at me, and my stomach drops. She’s still there, but her gaze is a little unfocused.

“You have such beautiful hair, baby.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Are you nervous about the dance tonight? We should really start thinking about getting you ready. Don’t want to be late for prom.”

The puzzle piece slips from my fingers. Prom? Jesus. That was over ten years ago. At least she recognizes me.

“A little nervous,” I manage, my voice steady despite the way my chest is caving in. I’ve learned from the nurses that the easiest way through an episode is to go along with it rather than fight it. “What do you think I should do with it?”

“Oh, definitely an updo. Something elegant.” Her eyes light up with excitement. “What time is your date picking you up?”

“Seven.” Every lie crushes me a little more.

“Then we better get moving!” She starts to stand, panic creeping into her voice. “We haven’t even started on your hair, and your dress probably needs to be steamed, and⁠—”

“Mom, it’s okay.” I reach for her hand. “We have time. Let’s finish the puzzle.”

But she’s already moving toward her tiny bathroom, muttering about curling irons and bobby pins. I hear her opening and closing the medicine cabinet, then a crash as something hits the floor.

“Mom?”

“I can’t find my curling iron.”

That’s because she’s not allowed to have one. “Oh, it’s okay. I think I might have Callie do my hair,” I say, trying to bring her back to me.

“Nonsense. I can do it, I just need to find the damn thing.” She bangs around in the bathroom some more before making a frustrated sound. “Where is it? Where’s my curling iron?” Her voice is rising, taking on that edge I know too well.

I walk to the bathroom doorway. “It’s okay. My hair is fine down.”

“No.” She slices her hand through the air. “No, we have to curl it.” She scowls at the bathroom cabinet. “This isn’t even my bathroom!” Her bewildered expression kills me. “Where are we?”