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The second quiet settles into the space, the image of Olive with Bodhi Hoffman appears in the forefront of my mind.

I miss you too.

Evidently, not enough.

I spend the next hour and a half in the gym downstairs doing my absolute best to sweat it out of my thoughts for good.

*

The cloudy glaze over my mother’s eyes reminds me of the times she used to take NyQuil to help her sleep.

When that stopped working, she’d take the leftover muscle relaxers my father had left behind from an old accident he’d gotten into.

That supply quickly ended, and she depended on a mixture of melatonin and wine despite my protests over her combining the two.

Pam warned me that Mom was going to look a little off because she’s still adjusting to the new medication. I’m not sure what I expected, but it isn’t this .

Sliding the book of crossword puzzles over to her, I try ignoring how…empty she appears. “I brought you something. You used to love doing these. Remember? You’d even create your own version using the spelling words I got every week at school to help me learn them.”

My mother’s creativity helped me get through a lot of my classes.

English isn’t my strong suit. I hate reading, and I hate writing even more.

At one point, my teacher called my parents in for a conference about the possibility of me having a reading disorder.

Mom didn’t believe it for a second and found different ways to help me get into the material.

Because of her, I became a better student.

By the time I hit middle school, I’d been in an advanced English class.

Her eyes drop to the polished cover. “I don’t like these anymore. They’re boring.”

Lips twitching, I clear my throat. “Okay. Is there anything else you like to do? Pam said you do crafts. I can get you things from their approved list.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say based on the way her eyes narrow. “They won’t even let me use scissors, Alexander. I’m being treated like a child. I am your mother .”

Her voice raises, making me eye the employee in the corner nervously. “I know you are. And I’m sorry you’re upset about that. But you know why they won’t let you have scissors.”

I’m not going to point out the very blunt reason those privileges were taken away. The scars on her arm are faint, but still there.

She scoffs. “That was an accident.”

Those are not accidental cuts, but I’m not about to argue with her and start something. “I found someone to fix the roof at home,” I tell her to change the subject. “Mr. Moore suggested him.”

Mom frowns. “When did you speak to Mr. Moore? He’s a gossip. I don’t like him.”

Who does she like these days? “I saw him when I went to check on the house. Asked if he knew anyone who could do the job without breaking the bank. He told me he just got his redone a few years ago by the people he gave me a card to.”

She leans back in the chair. “When your father left, he and that nosey wife of his were practically plastered to the window watching him load up his truck. It was embarrassing.”

I’d like to think she’s exaggerating, but I doubt it.

We did have neighbors that liked to know everything that was going on.

They were always outside at convenient times.

I’m pretty sure Mr. Moore was raking his driveway at one point when my parents were getting into it over an ugly ass lamp that my mom didn’t want Dad to have.

She broke it a month later.

“Well, we only talked about roofing. And our place needs it, Ma. There’s a huge leak that’s damaging the kitchen ceiling. I’m afraid they’re going to tell me that there’s water damage that will need to get fixed, but it’s better than the ceiling caving in or mold growing.”

“We don’t have the money to fix the roof.”

My foot shakes under the table. “Yes, we do. I’ve got it covered. I just did a commercial shoot for Gilette. You know, the razor company? They paid me already. It’s plenty to cover a roof.”

Her mood shifts. “A commercial?” she asks.

I nod. “They’re going to start playing it at the end of summer. I’m sure you’ll see it. They also did some photos for an online ad campaign. Don’t get me started on what they made me do for that.”

There was makeup. Fucking makeup . I don’t give a shit who wears the stuff, but I didn’t want any on my face. I felt like I was somebody’s doll being dressed up.

Mom’s eyes soften. “Oh, Alex. That’s so fun. Did you hear that, Ed? My famous boy is going to be on television!”

I turn to see who she’s talking to. At the table over is an older man reading a newspaper. He waves her off, not seeming to care. Can’t say I blame the guy.

“I’m not famous,” I tell her quietly. “And it’s just a commercial. Not a TV show or anything. But it’s good for us. And my agent said he’s working on a few other sponsorships.”

“You’ve always worked so hard,” she praises, reaching out and brushing my hand. “So much like your daddy.”

It’s rare she mentions him without an insult thrown in, so I don’t complain.

I also don’t pay any attention to it. I simply tuck it away in the back of my mind so she can’t take it back.

“The captain of our team is having people over to his place later this week. You should see it. It’s massive.

Three times the size as our home back in Lindon.

I’ve only been there once before and couldn’t believe the view. ”

The good mood she was in fades as quickly as it appeared. “I would be able to see it if you let me leave. But you’re keeping me here like some sort of prisoner. Don’t you miss me?”

My teeth grind. “You know I do. But I see you every chance I can, and we talk on the phone all the time. They give you great food and a lot of stuff to do. Trust me. This place is far from a prison.”

Her arms cross. “You’re just saying that to make yourself feel better for sticking me here. Admit it, Alex. The only reason I’m sitting here is because you don’t want to be responsible for me anymore.”

Ice coats my heart. “That’s so far from the truth and you know it.”

She won’t look at me.

“Everything I do,” I tell her slowly, “is because of you. I’m working my ass off to make sure you get the care you need. You’re sick, Ma. They can help you better than I can. It’s not permanent.”

“I want to go home,” she tells me, her voice quieter—more fragile. “This isn’t my home, Alex.”

It’s hard to swallow when I see her eyes dull to a shade even dimmer than the last. “Have you talked during your therapy sessions? Maybe they could help you feel better. I can make time and come too, if that would help. But if you want to go home, you’re going to need to put in the effort. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

She frowns. “But I don’t like talking to these people. My business is none of theirs.”

“It’s their job,” I remind her. “That’s why they’re here.”

Her eyes remain on something at the opposite end of the room, evading me entirely. Fine. If that’s how she wants to play, I’ll play.

“I guess I’ll do this crossword myself then.” I grab it and open it to the first page, taking the pencil from the center of the table and tapping the chewed eraser against the paper. “Hmm. Number sixty-eight. Four across. Third letter is Y. Brighter times.”

My eyes peek up at the woman doing her best to ignore me.

But I see it. The interest.

After a few silent minutes, she says, “Days.”

I write it in. “Huh. It fits.”

She finally turns to me. “Give me another.”

We spend the next forty minutes going back and forth until the first puzzle is complete.

I don’t bring up therapy again.

Neither does she.

She keeps the book.

Pam calls a few days later and says she hasn’t put it down.