“Then why aren’t we driving to your house?”
“Because dinner tonight is at the assisted living center.” Her eyes go wide with excitement. “Isn’t that great?”
“Wait. What?”
“We’re serving chicken pot pie to the residents at the assisted living center. So you’ll get to see your mom. Surprise!”
“That’s areallybig surprise.” I practically choke on the words as they come out.
“I just thought you’d want to spend some more time with your mom. So I set everything up this morning.”
Lacee seems so pleased with herself that I can’t even be mad. But if I’d known all along that dinner would be with the real Mary Bradshaw, I wouldn’t have tried so hard to secure my spot at the table.
I stop the car in front of the rest home and climb out of the driver’s side, swinging my eyes over the lit-up building. Icicle lights hang from the gables, and red tinsel wraps around each log post. I find myself feeling happy that my mom’s at such a nice festive place.
What am I even talking about?
She’snotmy mom.
I suck in a deep breath as we make our way to the entrance. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t completely dreading this whole thing.
You’ve gotten yourself out of situations more intense than this. One old lady isn’t going to blow your cover...I hope.
“Are you okay?” Lacee asks.
“Yeah, why?”
She holds up our intertwined fingers. “You’re all clammy.”
“Sorry!” I yank my hand free from hers, wiping it on my jeans. “That’s gross.”
“Is it not okay that we’re visiting your mom?” She tilts her head, looking directly into my eyes. “You seem nervous about it.”
“Why would I be nervous?”
Iamnervous.
I’ve snuck into rooms full of criminals holding guns and never felt this nervous.
“I don’t know.” Lacee eyes me, amusement flashing behind her stare. “You tell me.”
“Welcome!” The electric doors slide open. “Are you here to help with dinner?” The woman at the front counter smiles at us. She’s wearing a Christmas tree sweater with sequins and puffed balls as the decorations. I glance down at the plaque with her name on it. Marla Jones.
Marla.
I should’ve used that name for my fake mom instead of Mary.
I’m full of regrets.
“Yes,” Lacee answers. “We’re with Gina and Bruce Warren.”
“Great. You can head back to the banquet room.” Marla points around the corner.
I’m like a boxer walking down the corridor before a fight. I roll my shoulders back and stretch my neck side to side.
It’s go-time.
As we turn the corner, the hallway opens up to a giant room. Couches surround a television hung on the wall. Round tables are spread throughout—some with seats and some without, making room for wheelchairs. On the other side, rectangular folding tables are pushed together with snowflake tablecloths stretched over them. A buffet of food sits on the table. Bruce and Gina hold spoons in their hands, dishing chicken pot pie onto plates for residents.
