I look up to our apartment door, where somewhere behind it my mother is lying in bed under the weight of her blankets and her guilt, and I try to imagine if this is what she deserves. Even with all my anger, all my disappointment in her, in what she can or can’t manage, I cannot picture this as what she or I deserve. I cannot picture the kindness in Gary’s heart being repaid by years of unending grief, cannot imagine a world where one night of intoxication is punished with the death of someone you dearly love.

“No,” I say quietly. “I don’t think it works that way.”

He nods. “No,” he says. “I don’t think it does either.”

XXIV.

I AM SURPRISED A FEW DAYS LATER WHEN I WAKE to the smell of something burning. My mother is in our tiny kitchen humming over a frying pan.

I push myself up on my elbows and squint in the light. “Whatever you’re cooking, it was done ten minutes ago.” Even though I told him not to worry about it, Gary sent a grocery delivery to our place the day after we spoke.

“But you said you don’t like your eggs runny,” she whines.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like them burnt either.” I sit up fully and watch her try to plate the fried eggs that are now black around the edges. She’s barefoot and wrapped in a short, kimono-style robe. Her hair is still wet from a shower, and her toenails are a bright canary yellow, which means she painted them. Something has flipped the switch if she’s managed this kind of turnaround—bathing, shaving, cooking—just like Gary said it would. I wonder what it is.

“It’s good to see you’re feeling better,” I tell her as I pad to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.

“What was that, love?” she asks when I return. Her voice is high and bright. She seems unaware of the fog of depression she has just crawled out of.

“You know, your ‘stomach bug’?” I make air quotes when I say it, but they go right over her head.

“Oh, yeah, that. No fun at all. Must have been something I ate. Or maybe Nan gave it to me.”

“Morning sickness isn’t contagious,” I say with an eye roll. We both know she wasn’t sick.

She ignores my snide remark and pats the chair next to her. “Come, sit and eat. We need to plan.”

I slide in next to her and push my plate away. “I told you already, this whole Andes idea is ludicrous. You’ve never even been out of the South, let alone out of the country. What if you get altitude sickness, huh? What then?”

“I’m not talking about that,” she says, brushing me off. “And you have no idea where I’ve been.”