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I finally get her in the car by plying her with promises of sweets. “Cheesecake, cookies, or ice cream. Your choice,” I tell her.
And she holds me to this after her appointment, telling me she wants all three. “You said my choice. And I choose all three.”
“I meant your choice ofone,” I say, pushing open the door for her while waving goodbye to Dr. Wei, her acupuncturist.
Needles make me sweat in places I’d rather not mention. I fully blacked out the last time I had immunizations. But acupuncture helps Mom, so I can manage sitting in the same building, trying not to imagine her with tiny needles in her skin. I always wait in the living room of the old-house-turned-acupuncture-clinic, doing something inane like responding to comments on my latest TikTok videos.
Today though, I’d rather think about a face full of needles than my visa issue.
Mom loops her arm through mine as we cross the wide porch. A group of jack-o’-lanterns left over from Halloween slouches on the steps, their smiles softening as they slowly cave in on themselves.
“Then you should have specified,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze.
She’s got me there. And even if she didn’t, I still wouldn’t say no. I almost never do, unless it’s something that would be harmful to her health, like skipping out on appointments.
Because today is a good day, we walk the few blocks to The Toasted Pecan Bakery. The air is crisp, but the sun is high and bright, making this late fall day feel more like summer than a precursor to winter. It’s so nice I can almost forget about my morning.
The lawyers. My visa issue. Having to tell Mom.
So far, she hasn’t picked up on my mood. But then I make the mistake of only ordering coffee. Which sounds puny compared to Mom’s cinnamon roll, chocolate caramel muffin, and slice of French silk pie. None of which are cheesecake, cookies, or ice cream but all of which satisfy her sweet tooth. For now.
Mom presses a hand to my forehead. “You don’tfeelfeverish.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Well, you’resomething,” Mom says. “Not hungry foryouhas always translated to something being wrong. Like the time you stole those batteries from the store.”
I groan. “Will I ever live that down? It was a two-pack of double-A batteries, Ma. I was seven.”
“And your guilt kept you from eating dinner. Otherwise, I’d never have known. Not when you buried the batteries inthe backyard to hide them from me.” She laughs. “Remember getting worried about growing a battery tree?”
We’re still standing at the counter, and I’m thankful there’s no post-lunch rush. “Yes. I do remember.”
“Good thing you chose hockey instead of a life of crime.” Mom pats my arm. “You’d make a terrible criminal.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, but the mention of hockey only makes my stomach clench more. Same with the mention of being a criminal.
Because I’ll be honest—over the last few hours, I’ve been considering Malik’s suggestion. Or some version of it, since there is obviously no girlfriend in the picture like he thinks.
Which means, I guess Iamthinking about a life of crime.
Atemporarylife of crime. More like aseasonof it. A briefmomentof crime.
And when you compare getting married to stay in the country to something like selling drugs or robbing a bank, it’s hardly even a crime. Not if you grade crime on a curve.
It would be less a life of crime and more a moment of ignoring some minor laws.
“For here or to go?” the man behind the counter asks.
“To go.” I turn to Mom. “I still want to go to the shelter before it closes.”
Her smile is wide. “You and your dogs. When are you going to bring one home?”
“One day,” I tell her. We both know I’m too busy, and her health is too up-and-down to add in the responsibility of a dog.
As we retrieve our order, the guy behind the counter clears his throat. “And could I get an autograph? I follow you on TikTok.”
“Of course.” I end up signing one of the white pastry bags for him. It’s still folded neatly, my scrawled signature contrasting with the neatly printed Toasted Pecan logo.
