I open and shut my mouth like a fish. Here she is. Right in front of me. It’s her, but it’s not her. She looks different. Thinner—so thin her collarbones poke out at sharp angles. A couple of inches of dark roots show in her hair. I guess she hasn’t bleached it in a while. Or maybe she’s stopped. Maybe that’s two months of time marked right there. And her denim jacket, the one with the fake rhinestones along the collar, looks dirty and not warm enough for the weather.

And then something clicks as my heart hammers away. She doesn’t look different at all. She looks exactly like she always did. I’ve just never been away long enough to see her like a stranger would.

“Hi, Mom.” When my voice cracks on “Mom,” she looks down. Her eyes settle on my cup, and she points.

“That’s a fancy coffee you got there, baby girl.” I can see her adding up the price in her head, and I want to shake her. She will not make me feel guilty for this.

“Can I get you anything, Jill?” Ginger steps forward for the first time and looks, if possible, more nervous than me.

“Ginger.” The way Mom says her name seems kind of mean. But I’m not sure how. She doesn’t answer Ginger’s question.

Nobody knows what to do now. We shuffle from foot to foot in our sad little triangle. When the song switches over to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You,” Melissa steps in, breaking up the silence.

“Ginger, why don’t you and I take that table, and Jill and Lou can have this one?”

Ginger nods, relieved, and follows Melissa. My stomach drops. I don’t want to be left alone with Mom. I don’t know what to say to her. How do you make small talk with your mother after she becomes a stranger?

“You look good, Lou. Real good.” Her voice is raspy and lower than normal, like she’s caught a cold. “You’ve got some meat on your bones now?” It’s a statement, but she says it like a question. I stay quiet.

“Is that a new jacket?” She points a red nail at the North Face that Ginger bought me in Florida. I fight the urge to tell her it was on sale. Why should I? Why should it matter? I shrug. She doesn’t seem bothered that I’m not talking. Which bothers me.

When she takes off her own jacket, I spot a little round sticker on her bicep. She catches me looking and pats it.

“Nicotine patch. I’m trying to quit.” She laughs then, which turns into a cough. “Amelie went and threw out all my smokes.”