“You are out of control, Paris,” the Smart Side of Me says out loud. “You’ve been taking these stupid pills for so long now that they’ve become a part of your daily routine. They’re affecting your whole demeanor. Your personality, even your thoughts.”

“But that’s not completely true,” the Dumb Side of Me says.

“Bullshit. You can’t even start your day without figuring them into the equation.”

“That is not true.”

“Bullshit. You can’t get through a day without them.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Yes. I’ll bet you can’t do it.”

“Watch this,” the Smart Side of Me says, as I reach into my purse and get out my brand-new full-to-the-top bottle of sixty extra-strength Vicodin (the Dumb Side has not only moved up in the world, but found a new doctor, who was even more gullible than the others), untwist the top, and toss every single one of them as far as they’ll go out into that parking lot. “There!”

And as soon as I do it, I panic. But the Smart Me refuses to succumb to the sudden pang of being left out in the middle of an empty lake in a paddleboat with no oar, and I back the car out and drive home. When I get inside the garage, I push the bottle inside an empty milk carton in the recycle bin.

“I can do this,” I say as I walk in the house, where Dingus is sitting with a long face. We’ve both been so blue since Mama died that it has become our manner: sadness. I’ve been told that we’re just grieving, that it’s normal, and as time passes it’ll get easier. But it’s been three months, and I feel exactly the same way. I miss her and want her to come back. I can’t imagine not feeling like this. Ever.

But I’m trying. In fact, I actually have a real-live date tomorrow with Randall. Finally. After I got back from London, I called him to tell him what had happened to my mother. He completely understood when I said I wanted to hold off finishing the yard because it didn’t seem that important at that time. Now I feel a need for motion, activity, company. Someone to talk to besides my family.

“Ma, you got a minute?” Dingus asks.

“The question is, do you have a minute? Can you get the groceries out of the car first, or is this something that can’t wait?”

“I guess it can wait,” he says, and saunters out to the garage and comes right back, carrying all six bags. How does he do that?

“You want me to put this stuff away?”

“No, I can do it. What’s going on?”

“Have a seat,” he says.

“Why do I need to have a seat?”

“Just because.”

“Get to the point, would you, Dingus?”

He takes a few deep breaths. “Jade’s pregnant.”

“Who?”

“Jade.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not impossible, Ma.”

“How did that girl get pregnant, Dingus?”

“We had an accident, is all.”