Page 90 of How Lulu Lost Her Mind

Mom’s the only one left in the room, and I take her dirty cake plate and cup. “Poor Jim pulled out the boob bottle and got so red, he almost burst into flames,” I tell Simon.

“What’s a boob bottle?”

“It’s in there,” Mom says, and points to the baby bag. “It’s for trickin’ babies.”

Simon sticks his hand in the bag and pulls it out. “This tricks babies?” He studies it from all angles like it’s a science project. “It doesn’t look like any boob I’ve ever seen.”

Again, not going to ask the obvious question.

“I have a glorious bosom,” Mom announces.

I could argue, but I won’t. “Do you want to write something in the Advice for Parents book you got for Lindsey?” I hold it up for her to see. “I can write down a message, then you can sign it.”

She motions affirmatively, and I grab a pen. “I want to say…” I sit beside her, pen suspended above the page. “Hmm, I want to say…” She looks up at the ceiling and yawns. “I want to say, ‘I like you more than Wynonna.’?”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. She never steals my shoes or tries to kill me.”

“Any advice about having a baby?”

“No.”

“Okay…” I write it down, and Mom signs it. She obviously doesn’t understand the concept behind the book, but, hey, at least she had something nice to say. I return to the table across the room and grab a garbage bag. “Mom, do you know where Lindsey and Jim are?” I ask as I throw away dirty plates and cups.

“No. Where?”

“No. Do you know— Never mind. It’s an hour past the time you usually take a nap.”

“I don’t need a goddamn nap!”

“Okaaay. Just thought you’d like to know.”

She thinks about it for a moment, then scoots to the edge of the sofa. “I need my rest.”

Simon holds out his hand for her. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, foxy man.”

“Have a good rest, Ms. Patricia.”

She winks at him. “I’ll be good as new.”

I drop the garbage bag and walk with Mom from the room, but halfway down the hall she stops. “I forgot something,” she says, and retraces her steps.

I can hear her muffled voice and the deep timbre of his laughter. I don’t even want to imagine what she might be proposing, but she’s smiling and has a Little Peanut party box when she comes back.

“Did you have a good time today?” I ask Mom as we continue to her room.

“Oh yes. That was a good cake,” she says, and sets the favor box on her side table.

“The frosting was excellent.” She sits on the side of the bed, and I kneel down to take off her white orthopedic shoes. “You have a birthday in about six weeks. We should get your cake from the same place.”

“Carrot,” she says. “Carrot cake is my favorite.”

Until half a second ago, her favorite has always been angel food with fresh strawberries. I put her shoes to one side and stand. “Do you need anything?”

She lies down on one pillow and puts a hand on her stomach. “Just go out and shut the door.”