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“Who knows,” she sniffed. “He can tell me ten and it ends up being two,” she said, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. “He wants me committed, did you know that? He told me he’d pay for an inpatient program. It’s either that or I leave. He thinks I need help.”

“And you said no? You do need help!”

“I’m not crazy, Emma!”

“Well you’re not okay either!” I snapped. “Look at this! Look what you did! We need to clean this up. You know that, right? We can’t let him walk into this.”

“Fuck him.”

“Mom! What do you want? You want the cops to drag you out of here? You’re stealing from him, and this is destruction of property. This isn’t your house!”

She collapsed again into a heap and wailed.

I stared at her, feeling completely overwhelmed.

Maddy was right, I should have warned him.

I didn’t know what to do.

Where would I take her if he kicked her out? She was back in one of her episodes, I couldn’t leave her alone. She couldn’t stay with me and Maddy. They wouldn’t admit her at a hospital unless she was a danger to herself, which she’d never own up to, she turned down Neil’s offer of help. So what? What do I do?

I get her off the floor.

I was an adult now, not an eight-year-old kid. If I could do this then, I could do it now. Just… get her off the floor. De-escalate her so she cooperates and stops making it worse.

“Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let’s just take a warm bath. Get you out of these clothes. I’ll make you some tea, okay?”

I ran the water and managed to put her in the tub. Lit one of her candles, then went downstairs to make her something to drink.

Maria was right about the house.

For all the long nights Maria said she’d worked on it, the rose wall wasn’t even half done. It looked like Mom had painted over it and started again and the restart was sloppy. The herbs Mom had brought home all those weeks ago from the farmers’ market were crispy on the windowsill. The house was full of decaying flowers. Vase after vase.

While I waited for the kettle to heat up, I wandered around collecting them. I dumped the water and tossed the wilted bouquets. Threw away the brittle herbs. Then I finished making her tea and brought it upstairs.

By the time I’d gotten back to the bathroom, Mom was calm, but she still looked awful. Her eyes were hollow. She was puffy, the way she got when she was drinking too much. But worst of all, the smell of her perfume was gone. There was nothing but the scent of rotting blossoms and stagnant water still in my nostrils and the smell of the candles she used to hide it all.

I set her mug on the tray over the tub and I leaned on the sink. “Mom?”

She stared glassy-eyed into the bathroom.

“Mom, have you still been seeing your therapist?”

She didn’t answer.

“When’s the last time you had a session?” I asked.

“Yesterday,” she said finally. “Venus is in retrograde. I’m supposed to practice self-care. Opal should help.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “But what did your therapist say?”

“That is what my therapist said.”

I stilled. “Why would your therapist talk to you about retrograde?” I asked carefully.

“What else would she talk to me about?”

My stomach bottomed out. No… “Mom, you said you had a therapist. A real one. You said—”