She’s shaking her head like I don’t get it and is squeezing my hand hard. Too hard.

“Lots of people are leading productive, active lives who have asthma. Look at Jackie Joyner-Kersee. She’s a heptathlete, a gold-medalist, an Olympian.”

“Yeah, well, she’s also young.”

“Mama, you’re not old. You’re only fifty-five.”

“I won’t be fifty-five for two and a half more weeks. Anyway, I don’t wanna run or jump no-damn-where. So more power to that girl. I would just like to walk up a flight of stairs or to the corner and back without getting short of breath.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know.”

“Okay,” I say, not sure what to say next, but this is what comes out of my mouth: “Well, Mama, let’s just say that, hypothetically speaking, if something were to happen to you and I became the so-called guide, as you say, my question to you is this: who’s going to be there to help guide me?”

“Me,” she says, matter-of-factly. And then releases her grip.

I’m not enjoying this conversation. Don’t like the topic or the tone, and especially the direction it’s going, so I decide to change it. “What’s the real deal with Daddy, Mama?”

“We ain’t talking about Cecil right now, are we?”

I shake my head.

“Look, Paris. I ain’t trying to scare you. I could live another two years or another twenty. You just never know. I been meaning to get some things out in the open in case something was to happen to me, so somebody would be prepared.”

“I feel lucky. Okay, Mama. I get it. Now, can we talk about living for a few minutes?”

“Okay,” she says. “What do you want?”

“What do you mean, what do I want?”

“For yourself.”

“I’ve got just about everything I need.”

“I beg to differ with you, baby.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You got blessed with Dingus. We both know that. But, Paris, it’s written all over your face: something’s missing in your life. Food and money ain’t quite cutting it, can’t you see that?”

Why does she have to go here? I said I was going to put everybody in their place when I got here, didn’t I? But this doesn’t exactly feel like the wisest time to chastise my mother, so I just say: “I’m doing the best I can.”

“That’s not true. You trying too hard to do all the right things, to fill up all your blank spaces. But you filling up them holes with bullshit. Stuff that don’t make you feel good inside. It look good from the outside, and that’s why you getting headaches and taking pills. But ain’t no pill in the world can cure what you got.”

“And what is it that I’ve got?”

“Heartache.”

“Heart what?”

“You can spell it any way you want to, but it still boils down to plain old loneliness.”

She does not know what she’s talking about. “I’m not lonely, Mama. And when was my heart supposed to have been broken?”