As if Mama gives a damn.

Once my eyes adjust to the kitchen’s brightness, the swirls around Mama’s head slowly recede into an ordinary grey blur. There are tears swelling in her eyes. Despite my ringing ears and screaming headache, I can hear Peggy breathlessly spreading the details of Reenie Walker’s death, which she heard from Shirl Short, who heard from Cindy Grimes, who is sleeping with Allie Walker’s father. No doubt that old pack of hyenas will be itching to rip into the meaty saga of my upcoming demise, and Peggy will have the perfect excuse to throw herself a pity party in my name. Pfft. Over my dead body, Peggy Fortune. That’s another thing for my Fuck It List: to tell that one off, once and for all.

I want to start now. I open my mouth to yell, “Shut your trap, you gossipy old quiff!” at the nattering presence on the other end of the phone. But no words come out. Instead, I throw up all over the kitchen floor.

“Listen, Peg. Gotta go.” Mama smacks the phone and her soulless sister into silence. She sidesteps the puddle of vomit, puts her huge, gruff hands on either side of my throbbing head, and pulls me closer toward her for what I expect will be an awkward but tender peck on the cheek. Instead, she grips my skull a little too tight and sighs, “I’ll go get the Javex. That puke pile won’t clean itself.”

That’s why I came home. Because puke piles won’t clean themselves, and because I need my mother to help hold my head together while what’s left of my life falls apart.

While Mama is Javexing the bejesus out of the floor — as a hotel chambermaid of thirty-five years, she is professionally trained to Javex the bejesus out of anything — the phone rings again.

I stare at it, paralyzed by the terror of no call display. Should I pick it up? It’s Mama’s house, she should answer. What if it’s Peggy? Don’t wanna talk to her. What if people don’t know I’m home, or why? Worse yet, what if they do?

“Answer the goddamn phone, fool!” Mama yells.

I’m met with a velvety voice, punctuated by a crisp Indian accent. It’s my new neurologist at the hospital here. Dr. Parvati Divyaratna.

“Good morning, Stacey,” she says. “I am calling with good news.”

Dr. Divyaratna tells me that my medical file arrived from Toronto. The last MRI got some good, clear images of the tumours. Not only are they very photogenic, but their locations are also “clinically interesting.” And, an appointment opened up for ten thirty this morning because one of her other patients “came to the end of a long journey” last night.

“Who’s that?” Mama asks as I hang up.

“Dr. Divyaratna,” I say, proud of how easily her name rolls off my tongue.

“Oh, the Choco-Doc.”

“Jesus, Ma, don’t call her that.”

“G’wan it’s just a nickname. She’s dark and she’s sweet. Beats the hell out of what they used to call her.”