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Some sort of super-sensitive sensors tell the car when I approach and then sit inside it, so the engine starts in a matter of seconds. I hit the road while biting my lip, thinking of how I’ll explain the car to my mom. Jesse, as well, but I can fend him off.
I’m more worried about my mom’s reaction, which will depend on what I tell her. Or rather, how much. I don’t plan on telling her much. At least not today.
Mom’s wearing a black tank top without a bra, jean shorts, and slippers. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and a joint hangs from the corner of her mouth.
Classic.
The laundry basket by her side must’ve broken when she fell, and as I pull up, I see that she’s walking slowly and with a limp.
“Not too bad, my ass,” I say as I get out of the car.
I offer to help her into the car, but she waves me off, wobbling and losing her balance again. “I’m fine,” she says. “Everything is fine.”
I snort at her frustrated attitude and watch her get in by herself while I grab the basket and throw it into the trunk.
When I slide inside the driver’s seat, I expect a question about the vehicle, but I get, “Got a lighter in here?”
“Can’t smoke in my boss’s car,” I answer, and there’s my story. This is my boss’s car.
Mom nods. “It’s not too bad. I don’t know why Jesse made me call you.”
“You probably don’t feel it now, but I bet your tailbone is bruised. You’re sitting sideways, and the back of your thigh is scratched.”
She looks out the window. “You think you know everything.”
“Dr. Michaels might have a few minutes to see you.” She won’t go.
“No insurance.”
I guess we can bring up the termination letter now. “You just lost your job, Mom. You still have insurance.”
“It’s all terminated.”
I side-eye her. “Why would it all get terminated right away?”
“They found some pills in my purse.”
I swallow, a dreadful feeling forming in my belly. “I thought you got laid off.”
“I did.”
“But not because they’re laying people off. You got laid off because you broke the rules?”
“Michela, I’m not in the mood for one of your righteous speeches.”
“Mom, I’m not trying to give you a hard time, but I need to know what happened.”
“I fell down the stairs.”
“Not about the stairs. The job. The insurance.”
“I’ll get another job.”
We pull up at our apartment, and Mom tries to get out, but can’t. She starts cursing, so before she makes a scene for the neighbors, I open the car door and practically carry her upstairs. In her bedroom, I ignore the mess and the smell she lives in.
Once I lay her down, I cover her up, pluck the joint out of her mouth, and put it near an ashtray. Mom calms down slowly. I sit with her until she yawns.
When she closes her eyes, I open the nightstand. Inside are baggies of pills.
