AT THE TAXI stand I took off my backpack, my sweatshirt, which I tied around my waist. I put my bag back on, carried my phone, found my rideshare. A sedan, stinking of spruce air freshener, carried me up I-45 toward Texas Medical Center, the big hospital complex Houston is known for. It was the site of my mother’s first cancer diagnosis, when I was too young to remember. But she had many times driven me past the long row of white buildings; she had many times pointed to one and said that was where they’d cured her, and where she’d first tasted the painkillers that made her sick in a different way. So, the hospital for her was both good and bad, proof she hadn’t fabricated her pain, and the source of another, trickier pain, addiction being that much harder to excise.

Now, for me, the hospital felt like proof of my meanness, the callousness with which I had ignored her calls. But it also felt like a contrivance, the one place my mother could go to get my attention and summon me back to her. I told myself not to think of her that way. Yes, she was an addict, or had been once. But she wasn’t dishonest, not by nature. She wasn’t a bad mother. And anyway, Jake said that bad thoughts, bad vibes, had the potential to manifest bad realities. I decided to think only good thoughts, project only good vibes, and ignore the rest. I opened my phone, filmed myself smiling and lip-synching to the radio. DJ Khaled, We da best MUSIC. 97.9 The BOX. “I’m hooooome,” I wrote in “strong” font, and shared. The driver turned into the hospital drop-off lot. I put my phone in my backpack, put my head down, focused on finding my way. Visitor’s desk and nametag, east elevators, sixth floor, surgery suite. One attendant led me to another, to a nurse, who walked me through a series of doors. She swiped her Employee ID to expose the set of a TV drama, only badly lit, no gorgeous people anywhere. We stopped at a curtained chamber. The nurse said, “Knock knock,” and drew the fabric back. I wrestled my hoodie on, urgent with the arms, the bulk a tent for me to hide in. I wanted my mother to see my new breasts, larger than I’d expected, too large to miss. I couldn’t let her see.

She sat on a gurney, still dressed for living. Clogs and stretchy jeans. She was on her phone, but looked up, saw me, and her face went from flushed to a poached shade of white.