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Six
“Can you pass me the sage?” my mother asks, wrist-deep in sticky dough.
I grab the sachet of herbs she’d been drying on the deck all week and sprinkle some of it out on the counter for her.
She takes a pinch and throws it into the mixing bowl, continuing to knead, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Baking is a new hobby for my mother, but it’s something I wholeheartedly support. She’s not the best at it yet (and neither am I, so I’m not judging), but it’s edible, and it seems to really calm her down and give her something to focus on. She tends to start to follow a recipe before then throwing it out the window, choosing to get creative with flavors, herbs, and spices.
Today she’s decided to do focaccia for the first time, and while I think she probably should nail down a simple bread recipe first, I’m interested in seeing where this goes.
“Can you get the buttermilk out of the fridge?” she asks me, really beating down the dough.
I pause. I’m not sure buttermilk belongs in this recipe.
“And the raisins,” she adds.
More pausing.
But I get her the tiny container of buttermilk and a packet of raisins and let her have at it. Can’t be worse than the savory carrot cake she made the day before.
It’s been four days since the royals moved in next door, and my mother hasn’t left the house once. Normally I’d be encouraging her to take a walk and get some fresh air, but this is for the best. The fence and gate are already up (I got a note on our door on royal stationery, giving us the passcode; I suppose that Harrison got the hint and is trying to put some distance between us), and a couple of media vans have already parked outside on the cul-de-sac. I’ve only gone out once for groceries, and that was enough to make me never want to leave again. Some reporter leaped out of the van and was practically chasing me. The Garbage Pail couldn’t move fast enough.
The last thing I want is for my mother to go through that, though I know I can’t avoid it forever. Just as I can’t avoid giving her the papers to sign. There just doesn’t seem to be a good time to tell her that the carefully crafted world she’s buried herself in is becoming unearthed in a major way.
“I really think the savory quality of the sage will help bring out the sweetness in the raisins,” she says to me, giving me a quick smile. I know from the look in her eyes and the way she’s moving with a lot more gusto that she’s swinging to the upside of her mood. Dealing with someone with BPD means erratic personality changes, far beyond what most people think of as bipolar or manic-depressive. Today she’s been in a good mood, high energy, but I know her well enough to know that she’s going to burn out soon. All I can do is be ready for it and try to encourage her as well as I can to stay in the moment.
“I’m sure it will taste great,” I tell her genuinely. Sometimes when I try to placate her, she’s quick to call me out on it (she picks up on emotions like you wouldn’t believe) and it will often make things worse, sending her into a spiral. But right now she seems to believe me.
And then there’s a knock at the door.
Shit.
She pauses and stares at me with big eyes. “Who could that be?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, walking around the kitchen island toward the door. My mom is already rattled, and I have a feeling I know who it is, since we now have a buzzer at the front gate that no one has rung yet.
“Maybe it’s that handsome neighbor,” she says after me. “The one that looks like one of your mistakes.”
I don’t say anything, because it probably is Harrison, wanting those papers signed, though I would argue that none of my exes ever looked the way Harrison does.
I take in a deep breath and open the door.
It’s Monica, dressed in a floral sundress and ballet shoes, holding a bouquet of pale cream roses. Behind her is Harrison, same as always.
“Hi, Piper,” Monica says, giving me an apologetic smile. “Sorry for barging over like this. I realized we didn’t have your phone number.”
I take a moment to revel in this moment. It doesn’t matter that I was just with her at her house the other night, the fact that an honest-to-god princess is at my door doesn’t fail to shock me.
“Who is it?” my mother asks warily from behind me.
And I’m not quick enough to close the door.
I look over my shoulder to see my mother peering at Monica and Harrison suspiciously.
