Kitty Bolitar smiled at me, and for a moment, her face beamed. She was my mom again. I ran over to the side of the bed, transformed suddenly into a little boy. I collapsed to my knees and lowered my head onto her shoulder and then I, too, broke down. I sobbed. I sobbed on her shoulder for a very long time. I could hear her making a gentle shushing sound, a sound she made for me a hundred times before, trying to comfort me. I waited for her to put her hand on my head, but the restraints wouldn’t allow it.

“It’s okay, Mickey. Shh, it’s going to be okay.”

But I didn’t believe it. Worse, I didn’t believe her.

I put myself together a piece at a time. When I could finally speak, I said, “I need to ask you something.”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

I lifted my head. I wanted to look into her eyes when I asked. I wanted to see her reaction. “It’s about Dad.”

She winced. My parents loved each other. Oh, sure, right, lots of people’s parents do. But not like this. Their love was embarrassing. Their love was complete and whole and the problem with that kind of love, the problem with two becoming one, is what happens when one dies?

By definition, so must the other.

“What about your father?” she asked.

“Why did you have him cremated?”

“What?” She sounded more confused than shocked.

“I saw the paper you signed. I’m not mad or anything. I get it. But I don’t know why—”

“What are you talking about? He wasn’t cremated.”

“Yes, he was. You signed for it.”

Her eyes blazed now, boring into mine. I don’t think I had ever seen them this clear. “Mickey, listen to me. We buried your father in Los Angeles. I never had him cremated. Why would you think such a thing?”

She waited for the answer. I believed her. She hadn’t been in a drug stupor or anything like that. I could see it in her face. And I could see something else in her face too.

We had all been pretending.

My mother wasn’t going to get better. She was broken. Christine Shippee might be able to repair her for a little while, but she would just break again. There was only one hope for her. I knew that. When my father died, she died too. That was why I was willing to risk her treatment. That was why I didn’t care about the threats to throw her out of rehab. Rehab wouldn’t do any good. Right now, without my father, you were sticking a tiny bandage on a limb amputation.

My mother was lost to me forever. There was only one hope.

“Mom?”

“Yes.”

I kept my tone strong. “I need you to get better.”