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“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Shaking her own Scott-shaped indentation off, Jen said, “Look, I think I understand why you don’t want to call him, but please tell me you and the drummer are at least sexting.”
“Oh, all the time,” Mira said, holding up her phone, tilting it side to side. “It’s nothing but titty shots and dick pics in here.”
“That’s my girl.”
When her mom returned from the bathroom, Mira tried to plaster a smile on her face, but her mom looked so tired, her skin thin and papery, her eyes sunken. She needed to get more sleep.
“Well?” she said. And even her voice sounded tired because the cognitive testing Jen put her through always took its toll. “How did I do this time?”
Jen motioned them back into her office. “Do you want the good news first, or the not so good?”
“There’s not so good news?” A hollow pit opened up in Mira’s stomach as she took a chair across from Jen’s desk.
“Good news,” her mom replied, taking the seat next to Mira, her hands clasped in her lap. “Always lead with the good news.”
“For the most part, your results haven’t changed very much since the last time I tested you.”
“That’s great news!” Mira said, awash with relief.
“But,” Jen continued, “they have changed a little.”
“What does that mean?” her mom asked. “Am I getting worse?”
“No,” Jen said, but she said it like she wasn’t sure, like there was a question mark hovering above her head. “Not necessarily. You’re showing more difficulty with tasks that require divided attention. Some difficulty with dual tasking is a part of the normal aging process. For now, all it means is that you might have a harder time doing two things at once without making errors. Like following a recipe while having a conversation or balancing your checkbook while listening to the radio.”
Or putting the milk back in the right place when you’re on the phone with Maude Alice, Mira thought, then asked, “Is there anything we can do?”
“There’s a lot we can do,” Jen said with a reassuring nod that Mira only hoped worked on her mom, because it sure as shit wasn’t working on her. “We’ll address the deficit in your therapy sessions, and I’ll give you both some recommendations on reducing distractions you can implement at home.”
“More signs,” her mom said on a somber exhale. “More strategies.”
Mira hated this. She hated the way her fingers went stiff and cold when some new test result or difficulty with something her mom used to do with her eyes closed confirmed that her condition was progressing. She hated not knowing what would happen, how bad things might get, if her mom would wind up needing more help than she could give her, if she’d have to live as a long-term resident of this nursing home instead of only an outpatient, if someday she’d look at her but not know her, not know Ian, not remember.
She’d gotten lost hiking alone once, and the forest had been so thick she’d barely found her way out before sunset. That’s what this felt like. Like they were in the woods, only this time, there was no out. There was only deeper, darker, colder.
“Thanks, Jen,” she managed, pushing the words past the sharp lump in her throat. When her phone buzzed, she knew it was Cole without having to look, because the lump lost its thorns.
“I’ll go get you those handouts,” Jen said with a subtle nod toward her phone. “You’ve obviously got business to attend to.”
Her phone buzzed again, and Jen’s brow ticked up. “Important business.”
“What?” Linda said, running a finger under her eye, drying a tear Mira hadn’t even noticed. “Flirting with her drummer?”
Jen snorted.
Grateful for anything that lightened the mood, even if it came at her expense, Mira said, “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”
* * *
Pushing her window open,she crawled onto the seat and inhaled the thick, sweet scent of the lilac bushes in the alley. She hadn’t had the time to conduct theimportant businessof replying to Cole’s text—a selfie with Ruby sleeping in his arms that had made her momentarily forget how to start her car—until now.
After dropping her mom off at home, then taking Ian to piano, then making dinner, then trying to help Ian with some pre-calc homework but only being able to provide emotional support, she was finally alone, in her room, holding her phone close like a security blanket.
She started a text, telling Cole about the therapy session and her mom’s test results, but halfway through, her fingers stalled. Aside from Jen, Mira didn’t talk to anyone about her mom. People in town asked her how things were going all the time, but she always kept her responses surface level. Anything more than that felt too much like gossip, and she never wanted her mom to hear something she’d said about her secondhand, well intentioned or not. So whenever anyone asked, her answer was always the same: she’s fine, we’re fine, everything is fine. But everything wasn’t fine.
Finishing her text and hitting send made her heart pound and her palms sweat, but it also felt like a rebellion. Like she could finally let someone know, lethimknow, that she, Mira Harlow, stoic small-town baker, invisible woman behind the counter, the friend who rarely smiled but never cried, was really struggling. Like she might finally be able to scream out into the cool evening air, I AM NOT FUCKING FINE!
