“Oh, you know. I worked in PR until I got pregnant with your brother. I was good at it, too. But then, I’m not sure, motherhood kind of made me feel like I had to shy away from that kind of life, like I had no reason to take up that much space anymore. But I resented that feeling later, and I wanted differently for you. I wanted you to be the kind of woman who took the space, who dictated the space, not just existed in it. I wanted you to be cunning and strategic in every facet of your life, to get out on top. Kindness, it’s overrated. Kind people don’t get shit done because they’re too worried what other people will think. And I wanted you to get shit done. And obviously, the more successful you were, the better I would look. So it was a win-win in my eyes.” She stirs her tea, looks out the window at the sunbaked sidewalk.

“There’s someone I want you to meet. I met her in yoga. She’s a fixer.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom, God, stop right there.”

But Mom is on a roll. “She fixes public scandals. Every celebrity or politician or businessman who’s been canceled? She’s the one behind getting their career back on track.” She fidgets with her bracelets, moves them up her arms.

“I don’t need anyone like that. I thought you said so yourself, that I can take care of myself.”

She flits her eyes down, into her tea. “I know, I know. But do this for me, okay? She knows your whole story. And she’s coming over this afternoon to chat with you.”

I resist rolling my eyes again. “Fine. Fine. But if she’s some New Age freak who says she’s going to spirit all my problems away, I swear I won’t visit again.”

We go back to the house and Mom leaves to run some errands, probably to see her new boyfriend. She tells me to wait around for the “fixer” to show up, so I go and lie in bed, waiting for the doorbell to ring. If only I could tell my mom that hopefully in a few short days my life will change again, for good.

Finally, I hear a car pull up and park in the small driveway and I get up, anticipating the doorbell. I go downstairs and open the door before it rings, peek out.

And there, her hair cropped short, dressed blindingly in white, is Persephone Tanner, leaning against her car and smoking, one finger waving at me, nails magenta like tongues.

Persephone Tanner sits at my mother’s kitchen table, smoking inside, all windows open, and tells me a story.