Page 25 of None Of Your Business

“I’ve started running,” I say.

Of every possible lie available to me, I’ve selected the one least supported by twenty-six years of evidence.

“Running,” Madison says flatly. “You?”

“Me.”

“Running?”

I turn around. “Don’t give me that face.”

“You were just never the most… athletic.”

I point my brush at her. “You broke your foot trying to cheerlead.”

“That is completely—”

“Twice, Madison.”

“That’s not—”

“Same foot. Both times.”

She winces. “Too soon.”

I set the brush down and wipe my hands on the rag hanging from my back pocket. “Do you want coffee? I’ve got the good stuff.”

“I can’t.” She moves further into the studio, picking her way around the stacked supply crates with careful steps. “I just wanted to check in. You haven’t been to family dinner in a while.”

The thing about family dinner is that it requires getting there, sitting there, and getting home. On a bad week, that’s three separate negotiations with a body that doesn’t always work. Some days I’m fine. Other days I wake up, and my joints have decided to make every step an ordeal.

The problem with being fine sometimes is that people assume you can be fine whenever you need to be. I don’t know how to explain that to my family yet. It’s not that they wouldn’t try to understand. They’d try very hard, in the Callahan way, which means everyone has loud feelings about it at the same time.

Growing up, Mom’s bipolar disorder took up the most room. It had to. When she was sick, everything else shrank. Every ache and stumble I had as a kid got filed under growing pains, clumsiness, or stress at home. The doctors agreed.

She’s sensitive. She’s responding to her environment. She’ll grow out of it.

I grew out of asking.

Mom is doing well right now, and I know how fragile that balance is. If I drop a whole new set of health problems on her, she’ll feel guilty for not noticing them sooner. I’ve watched her spiral from far less.

So I say nothing. I show up when I can, and I don’t explain the times I can’t.

“I’ve been busy.”

Madison looks at me for a long beat, deciding whether to push. She decides not to.

“Mom’s doing well, right? I was with her yesterday, but she’s not hiding anything from me?”

Madison’s smile curls at the edges. “She’s doing great. The meds are working.”

“You’d tell me if she wasn’t.”

“I’d tell you.”

I hold her gaze for a second before changing the topic. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Good,” she says, loosening up. “The venue is locked in.”