I can’t help but recall our conversation after Nan’s reading and wonder what role it’s playing in her mystery illness.

On the evening of the sixth day, I score a lucky break when she leaves her cell phone on the kitchen counter. I glance toward her bedroom—no sound—and tiptoe to the front door, slipping silently into the courtyard with her phone in hand. Once outside, I seat myself on the edge of the fountain, knees tucked against my chest, and begin flipping through her contacts. When I find Gary’s number, I press the call button. He answers on the first ring.

“Mary?” His voice sounds strained.

“No. It’s me, Cat.”

“Cat? Why are you calling on your mother’s phone? Is everything all right?”

“There’s no emergency,” I tell him. “It’s just…Mom’s acting weird.”

“Uh-huh. Weird how?”

“I don’t know. She says she’s sick, but she doesn’t look it. She’s been in bed for days. She just sleeps and barely eats anything. I even tried to get her to watch a marathon of Shark Week reruns with me, but she said she was too tired.” I’ve learned my mother is a big Shark Week fan since moving back in with her, even though she can’t swim and is absolutely terrified of bodies of water larger than this fountain.

Gary is silent on the other end.

“Hello?” I say after a moment, wondering if the call dropped.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking. I wondered why she wasn’t returning my calls.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit. I’ve been around Gary enough at this point to know he’s a functioning alcoholic. So reaching out to him for advice feels a little desperate. But I don’t know anyone else who also knows my mother. Where is Moony’s good sense and decisiveness when I need it?

“Should I come over there?”

“I’m not sure. Will that really do anything, you think?”

“Probably not.” His voice is low, resigned. “Cat, honey, your mother…she’s a complicated woman.”

I sigh into the receiver. Here we go again. She’s complicated instead of sick. I regret reaching out to him already.

“In my experience, she rides these storms out all on her own if you just let her. Sometimes it takes a couple of weeks or so, but she comes around. Usually, something happens to pull her out of it.”

“Right. Okay. Well, thanks for nothing.” It doesn’t seem to dawn on Gary that my fate is in the hands of a woman who only last week wanted to chuck everything and move to the Andes to study with a shaman—I’d found her comparison shopping airfare—and today cannot drag herself from the bed long enough to eat a legitimate meal or brush her goddamned teeth. I also hate it when he calls me “honey.”