Page 31 of The Difference Between

He calls my mom Iris: They know each other. What’s his name? Gary? Garth? Something. He’s mowing her yard on a Saturday, albeit inconveniently, he has good intentions. My early-morning flight and pain-in-the-ass sisters might have made my bitch come on a bit too strong.

“Other than the headache from hell?” I shrug. “She just had brain surgery. Good as you’d expect.”

“Cracking up?”

I blink. “What?”

“You know—” He interlaces his fingers from both hands and holds them at his forehead like a big O before pulling it apart. Once. “Cracking”—twice—“up?”

There’s an awkward pause.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

He laughs through a breath. “Guess not if you have to ask.” Keeping his eyes on mine, he walks backward until he reaches the mower then positions himself on the machine and tugs on his gloves. “You here for a while?”

“Few months.” I raise my brows. “Why?”

He half shrugs. “Saw the moving truck.”

“Okay.” What does this have to do with anything? “Anything else you need to know? Like how to read signs written in plain English or tell a joke that makes someone laugh?”

“Not at the moment.” He eyes me. “But I know where to find you if something comes up.” He starts the mower, waves, then steers the machine toward his yard—passing the sign at the end of the driveway—and onto a trailer.

Okay.

I’m barely in the house when I spot Mom on the kitchen floor. My walk turns to a sprint. “Jesus, Mom. What the hell happened?” I help her into a chair.

“I got dizzy trying to reach a bowl and needed to sit on the floor.”

I look at the open cabinet like it just arrived from space. “What do you need a bowl for?”

“I thought we could make those cookies you like. The ginger ones.”

“The ginger ones?” I repeat. “Why?”

She rubs her temple. “You always loved them. We could have all the kids over.”

“Kids?” I sound as exasperated as I feel. My mother has always been the kind of woman to do what she wants, when she wants. Why I thought she’d make her recovery easy is laughable. “You just had brain surgery, Mom. There will be no kids over. Or cookies. Unless I make them. You’re supposed to be resting. The most active thing you should be doing is sitting on the toilet.”

With her wild white-blond hair held back, red cat-eyed glasses, and colorful nightgown, she is the polar opposite to my all-black clothes, and tamed dark bob. She simply looks at me.

“What?” I demand.

“Well get the bowl and let me tell you how to make them—I’m sure you haven’t made a batch in years.” She eyes my outfit. “And for God’s sake, Reese, lose the shoes. If you got fired for working too hard, give your feet a damn break.” When I think she’s done: “And wear some color, will you? You look like you’re between meetings at a funeral home.”

I bat my tongue around my mouth until all the swear words I want to say dissolve, then kick my shoes off.

“Happy now?” I make an annoyed face at her pleased nod. “And I didn’t get fired. I’m on sabbatical.”

She hums a knowing sound but doesn’t argue as I roll up my sleeves, tie one of her colorful aprons around my waist, and gather ingredients. The dough is barely finished when she tells me she needs to lie down.

As I make cookies, clean the kitchen—organizing the cabinet of tea is the paragon of satisfaction—and unpack my boxes, she sleeps. Through the day and the rest of the night. I check on her every hour, and she barely moves other than when I give her medicine—over-the-counter pain pills for the headache.

It’s the same the next day and the next.

Other than eating a few small meals and letting me help her sponge bathe, she sleeps.

I clean. I organize. I bake more cookies. I check my inbox nine thousand times and don’t have a single email. In a moment of weakness, I email Matt and ask if there’s anything I need to know about Fizz Co.