Page 16 of Manhattan State of Mind

“I still work for Quinn & Wolfe, right?”

Her face brightens. “Oh, yes, you’re still there.”

I heave a sigh of relief. So I didn’t get fired. That little indiscretion with the cartoon wolf must have blown over. Wolfe likely doesn’t even remember me.

“Oh my God, did I get promoted? Am I a Lead?”

The panic returns to her face. “I’m not really sure, Luce. You mentioned something about being a dynamo? Your work talk always flies over my head.”

“And what exactly is my job title these days?”

“Uh… designer? You design… things.” There’s a long pause as I see her brain ticking over. “On the internet!” She finally beams, apparently satisfied with her answer.It’s not technically true, but there’s no point in correcting her.

This is agonizing. I’ll need to ask the girls or Matty for specifics.

I suck in a breath. “Did I sell my apartment? Where am I living now?”

“No, you’re still at your place in Washington Heights.”

“What? Why didn’t I sell?”

She offers a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not sure, Luce. You said you had a change of heart.”

God, give me strength. Inwardly I groan, have Mom and I lived on different planets this past year?

Maybe the noisy neighbors moved out, so I didn’t have to? At least when I leave the hospital, I’ll return to familiar surroundings. And hopefully, my memories will come flooding back, revealing why I didn’t sell.

That’s what I’m banking on, anyway.

I switch gears again. “All right, can you tell me anything significant about this past year?”

She reflects for a moment before answering, “I got the kitchen all redone. And you’ve helped me with the garden. We planted delphiniums—they’re coming along nicely—and started an herb box.” She thinks. “Oh, and your cousin Nora? She’s expecting her third. They’re hoping for a boy this time.”

“Great, Mom,” I say, attempting to mask my disappointment.

That’s it? That’s all the life updates she has for me?

Since Dad passed away, I’ve tiptoed around her. Anything resembling a real-world problem was neatly swept under the proverbial rug, leaving me to solve it. Instead, she opted to immerse herself in the garden. A silent agreement was reached; Mom would bury her head in her hydrangeas, and I would handle the ugly realities that life tossed our way. Post-funeral, she was more engaged with bugs on her roses than Dad’s will. The brunt was mine to bear.

But communication has clearly gone downhill this past year—this is far worse than I imagined. I clearly didn’t tell heranything.

My heart nearly stops when her hand shoots up to cover her mouth.

“Oh God, Lucy!”

“What?” I demand, pushing myself up from the bed.

“You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Mrs. Forry from down the street died.”

“Oh, for the love of…” I slump back into the pillows. “I can’t even remember who she is.”

“She had that dog you liked so much, Buddy.”

“Oh yeah… right.” Odd, considering my dream, but not really relevant. I’m not heartless, but I haven’t seen Mrs. Forry in two decades.