Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I have a suspicion this diet is the only reason I ever get any glimpses of lucidity anymore—as rare as they are.
“Thanks, Lovie. I can finish everything up if you’re ready to take off.”
Lovie nods, hangs her black apron in the pantry around the corner, and then grabs her purse and keys from the laundry room just off the kitchen. She stays here most nights but has a rotation of time off that includes two nights this week and then the following weekend to herself.
Ideally, I wouldn’t have started a new job on one of the days she leaves early, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I dump the pasta from the stainless steel pot into the sauce and stir them together, then pull the bread from the oven before waving to Lovie as she makes her way down the stairs to head out the front door.
I check diligently to make sure that everything’s turned off, and when I’m sure it is, I dish some spaghetti onto a couple of plates, add a piece of fresh garlic wheat bread to each, and then carry them to the dining table. My mom’s attention finally comes around as I set everything down, the latest episode of her NCIS security blanket rolling into the credits.
“Hey, Sherry.” I greet her with a smile, knowing that using her name the first time we see each other after several hours apart is always the best practice. If she doesn’t recognize me as her daughter right away, calling her mom only sends her spiraling through a bout of anxiety.
“Hi, Ziva!” my mom says excitedly.
I have to suck my bottom lip to the side and gnaw on the delicate flesh to fight the sting of emotion in my nose. It’s not surprising that she doesn’t recognize me, but I can’t in good conscience say it gets any easier.
I miss the woman who used to braid my hair and read me stories in bed at night. I miss the mom who knew my deepest secrets because she could recognize them before I did. I miss the woman I used to lean on for strength, knowing she wouldn’t sway, no matter how strong the wind.
It’s the most painful kind of paradox to miss someone who is with you every day.
“Dinner’s ready if you are,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “And it sure looks good tonight.”
“Of course,” my mom says, hustling away from the couch and joining me to walk to the table.
Her dark hair is up in a loose bun, which I’m certain Lovie prompted this morning, and she’s dressed in a very put-together outfit—probably also through Lovie’s encouragement—of nice pants and a pretty pink sweater, which I have fond memories of her wearing when I was a teenager.
My mom can still do a lot of things for herself, but she has to be reminded to do them.
“We’ve got a big stakeout tonight, and I don’t want to be hungry later,” she says as she sits down in front of one of the plates of food. Then she starts to dig in.
I sneak behind her to grab the remote and pause her streaming binge before taking my place across from her and agreeing, “You’re right. Bound to be a long night.”
I’m in no more control of our conversations than she is of her memory, and these days swimming with the stream of her consciousness is the only way to avoid a major meltdown.
“What do you think the killer’s doing right now?” she asks.
To a third-party listener, that question would feel like it comes out of left field. But, somewhere in her mind, I know it makes sense. And I don’t question it or try to redirect her to reality—not only does it not help, but it genuinely upsets her.
“Probably hiding evidence,” I say with a shrug, wrapping spaghetti around my fork and taking a hearty bite as my stomach growls. With the chaos of sex calls I wasn’t expecting to take today, I completely forgot to eat.
Tomorrow, I’ll be sure to pack a lunch—but not grapes. After talking to a guy named Hugo today about using them to find his P-spot—whatever the fuck that even is—I’ll never be able to look at grapes the same again.
My mom scarfs down food, too, though her napkin use is demurer than mine. It reminds me of the composed woman she used to be, and I have to look down at my plate to keep myself from saying something that would confuse her.
“I bet you’re right, Ziva,” she says around a bite. “They’re probably trying to hide evidence in a safe-deposit box. Or maybe in an old barn.”
I nod. “They really like to use floorboards too.”
“Oh! Floorboards. We should look under these!” my mom says excitedly, jumping up from her seat. Her eyes are already fixated on the hardwood floor beneath her feet.