“Because it’s like a second wash. Like the assurance wash.”

We both laugh. “Mom, I have a confession. I don’t wash the dishes first.”

She slaps my chest again. “Quincy! You’ve been lying to me?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say lying. I rinse them. Sort of.”

“I can’t believe my only child would let me eat on dirty dishes all this time.”

“Only Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“Who’s gonna tell me I’m the best mom ever?”

“How many times do you think I tell you that now?”

“Well, every birthday, for sure. Yours and mine . . . certain holidays too. And then the random just because times. Let’s see, I’d say you average about ten a year.”

I do the math. “Okay, so ten a year with the average life expectancy, I still owe you at least sixty best mom evers.”

“So, see, you can’t go. And that’s just something silly. Think about . . . think about all of the other things that you’re supposed to do. You’ve still got too much to do. All your dreams, baby. Why did you get in that water?” She pulls me into another tight hug. “You should’ve just turned away.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“But I do! I do mean it!”

“No you don’t,” I tell her, kissing the top of her head. “It’s okay to be angry at me. It’s okay to be angry at this.”

“I’m not angry. I’m furious. I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m hurt. I’m weak. I’m . . .”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“Nothing is okay. Okay is a lie.”

“You know what’s not a lie?”

She doesn’t answer, shaking her head no against my chest.

“That you’re the best mom ever. Now I owe you fifty-nine.”

“Quincy.”

“You’re the best mom ever. You’re the best mom ever. Fifty-seven.”

“Quincy.”

“You are the best mom this world has ever seen. You are the epitome of moms. You are the zenith of momhood. Top-shelf mom-mery only. You are what God intended when he created the first mom. I could not have asked for a better mom. That’s gotta count for like ten, right?”

“Why are you like this?”

“That’s the easiest question you’ve asked all day. You.”

VIII.

And later, when we’ve finally stopped laughing and crying, Mom sits at the kitchen table while I hunt for snacks in the cabinets and pantry. Who knew finding out that you’re dead works up such an appetite?

I drop all of my goodies—chips, cookies, a six pack of soda—in front of Mom and she shakes her head. “Quincy, please, tell me you’re really not going to eat all this junk?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m not.”

“Good,” she says.

“Because you’re gonna help me.”