“Come on in,” Mom says.

Sylvie shakes her head. “Thanks but I’ll let you two visit.”

There’s a line drawn in the sand. I hesitate then cross it. “It’s okay. Mom, this is my friend Syl. This is Eve.”

Mom struggles to sit up, winces. I quickly reach for the controls on her bed and raise the back. “That okay?”

Mom says, “Yes. Thanks.” Her eyes take in Sylvie, top to bottom. “Aren’t you a pretty gal. I’ve never met any of Thomas’s girlfriends. Sit down. Tell me everything. How long have you two been dating? Do you live in LA or is it a long-distance thing? You young people are so modern. In my day we didn’t date via hookup apps.”

Hookup apps? “She’s not . . . Sylvie’s just a friend,” I say.

Mom looks down her nose at me, like she did when I was a kid, caught in a lie. “Thomas Henry Holmes, don’t tell fibs to an old woman.”

“He’s not,” Sylvie says.

“Girl like you won’t be on the market long.”

Sylvie chuckles, “You’d be surprised.”

Mom rubs her hands together, winces when her IV needle pulls. She always did like to gossip. I recall listening to her talk for hours on the phone with friends. My dad called it chirping. She asks Sylvie, “Why’s that?”

Sylvie takes a swallow of coffee.

“She works a lot,” I say.

“Doing what?” Mom looks back and forth between us. “You can tap boots but not answer a simple question?”

“Your mom would’ve been a good investigative journalist, given you stiff competition,” Sylvie says.

I’d forgotten how direct and determined my mother could be. When we were kids, she never let us skate on homework, chores, or commitments, and she could sniff out a lie like a bloodhound. Behind her back, we called her Sergeant Eve.

Sylvie heads for the door. “I’ll let you two visit in private.”

“Hold your ever-loving horses! I know who you are! You’re Sylvie Young! I have a ticket to your show this Sunday at the Schnitzer. Won’t make it now, but holy cow!” She slaps me on the arm. “You’re dating a psychic-medium? After telling me for years that what they do is horseshit?” Mom cackles, “Doesn’t this just beat all? Bernie will die laughing.” She looks from me to Sylvie. “If I’d known all it took was a pretty face to change my son’s mind, I would’ve made a private appointment, tried to set you two up on a blind date.”

Sylvie backs through the open door, cheeks rosy. “He hasn’t changed his mind.”

“Well, you’re here now. Let’s prove it to him.” Mom pats the bed, beckons Sylvie. “You may not know this, Thomas, but this young lady is going to be really famous. People in the know say so. Then folks like me won’t stand a chance to get a personal reading!” Sylvie doesn’t budge.

“I hate to use the old lady card,” Mom pushes, “but hell, I’m an old woman who could die of a blood clot in the next twenty-four hours or fall, hit my head, and never come out of the coma. You and my son clearly have something going on, so I’ll use that to try to sway you, too. Sylvie, would you read me, please? I can even pay . . . but not until next month, depending on the doctor bills.”