“Really?” I tried to hide the sarcasm in my voice, but wasn’t sure it was working. By her own admission, she’d gleaned this little nugget of info from Google. She’d probably also dipped her toe into the pool of fake Facebook junk that swirled around us on a daily basis. The kind that had people believing that the earth was flat, and that humans were being secretly microchipped by aliens. My mother buys into all of it. She never used to, but in the evenings when she’s all alone, you can find her frantically googling and watching YouTube videos about how the world government is made up of reptilians. I’m always amazed by her propensity to believe in the utterly unbelievable. Dr. Finkelstein said she’s probably unable to sit alone at night with her feelings, so grabs hold of any distraction she can find. Well, I could think of at least ten other, healthier distractions she could choose.

“It’s not like there’s much in the fridge,” I offered up flatly.

“It’s not like I’ve had any time to go shopping!” She sounded snappy now, and I decided to back off. No use in pointing out that the fridge was mostly empty and the house was still largely unfurnished since the second furniture delivery truck hadn’t arrived yet. It felt like we were living in a vast, hollow cavern; squatting in emptiness, waiting for our lives to begin. Our lives, which only a few days ago had been packed up into boxes, labeled, and loaded.

She sighed loudly. She did this a lot and it always made a flicker of guilt break through the general anger I felt toward her. “I’ll try to go to the shops tomorrow. I wanted to get Zac settled first, and I have all these new business meetings.”

“Sure,” I muttered quietly, almost to myself. I didn’t really believe her. I’d probably be the one buying the groceries, phoning the logistics company to track down our furniture, and filling out all of Zac’s forms for his new OT and speech therapists.

“What are you doing now?” she asked.

“Mmmm, I’ll have to look at my busy diary and get back to you.” I shoved an extra-large spoon into my mouth, pus or no pus.

“Lori Palmer. No need for that tone!” She put her hand on her hip and raised her eyebrows at me. They barely peeped over the rims of her big, designer sunglasses.

“Lori Palmer,” Zac repeated. He usually repeats words when he gets overwhelmed, when things around him aren’t completely calm, and suddenly, I felt bad for being sarcastic. Not because it was directed at my mom, but because it had unsettled Zac.

“Why? Would you like me to do something?” I asked as sweetly as possible.