“She’s sick,” I said. “She has been for a long time.” I heard my voice, sad, and tried to make it even. I missed her. And talking about her felt like a betrayal. How to explain: after the cancer had been cut out, healed, after the opioids had been kicked, after my father left, she had still been struck with a vague, recurring pain that seemed to move, according to her mood, from her feet to her forehead to her low back and tummy. But no doctor could locate the source. They said it was mental, suggested antidepressants and benzodiazepines she couldn’t afford and was afraid to take, anyway. “I’m an addictive personality,” she always said. “I prefer to depend solely on myself.” Most of the time, I tuned her out, just like the doctors did. Because, in truth, I felt that I was the one she depended on. I was the one who bore witness to her pain, always hopeful when it dissipated, always disappointed when it returned. It was a burden, to listen to her complaints and try to fix them. It was a burden, to try and fix her. To stop her eating too many diet ice cream sandwiches, drinking too much Diet Coke and Yellow Tail. “Next time you see me go back for seconds,” she always said, “you tell me to s-t-o-p.” I did but she never listened. Usually, her gluttony was funny, anyway. Only sometimes was it sad, my buzzed mother diagnosing herself with an addictive personality, as if it were a crime. Everything hurt on nights like those, and I never said the right thing to make her pain stop. Usually, I just turned on the TV. Her favorite show, The Real Housewives, her favorite city, Beverly Hills, because, she said, “those gals are actually loaded.” For years we had watched together, rapt. Lately, though, the drama had become rote. Or our phones had taken over, forcing us to scroll while the housewives fought, our eyes on our screens instead of the women. My mom liked to google their ages as she watched. She liked to google whether or not they were fighting in real life, and whether or not they knew the difference anymore. She was invested in people’s stories. The Hero’s Journey was how she saw her own. And mine. Also, she was sick. Other people rarely understood how she could be so many things, all at once. It was like they wanted her reduced, simplified.

“I’ll call your mom,” Jake said and wrapped his legs around my waist. “She just needs to know you’re taken care of.”

“She just needs to calm the fuck down.”

“Moms love me. One heart to heart and she’ll understand.”

“I’ll handle her,” I said and disentangled myself.