Page 21 of The Unraveling

“Yes, except…for Mimi.”

“What about Mimi?” I ask stupidly.

“Her care home is several thousand dollars a month, and though there’s enough payment for this month, after that…there aren’t any more funds.”

I start to panic. “What about the sale of the house?”

Shameful as it is, I never thought about the cost of Mimi’s care. I had assumed Mimi had savings that paid for it.

“To be honest, it needs a lot of work and most of the sale price is going to the mortgage. Anything it makes, of course, is going to you, but I wouldn’t expect it to cover more than a couple months and that’s it.”

My body goes hot. “What happens then?”

He hesitates. “That’s what we have to figure out.”

I feel like I’m falling. My eyes catch on Arabella’s pack of Sobranie cigarettes and matches inside. I open the door, grab them, and light one. My friend Sylvie and I used to share cigarettes on my old fire escape and talk about everything in our lives. A lot of what I did was talk about how much I hated my mom. And how much I love Mimi.

“Well…what are our options?” I ask.

He tells me exactly how much the care home costs per month. “Your grandmother needs intensive memory care. And your mom”—he gives a fond laugh—“she wouldn’t settle for any less than the best facility.”

“Uh…wow, that’s…that’s really expensive.”

“I know, honey. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” I blink down at my feet. “That’s really how much my mom was paying a month?” I ask, astounded.

“Yes,” he says. “She worked hard for the money to pay for it. She didn’t want your grandmother in a depressing place. She told me that.”

“Yes.”

“You could move her to another facility, though that could be costly as well, and if you want her to receive the same quality of care, then I imagine the price will stay around the same.”

“How did you know my mom?” I ask suddenly.

He hesitates, and then laughs, taken off guard. “Kind of a funny story, actually. We have the same therapist. We met in the waiting room. I was kind of a mess when I met her and she was just this great, funny, strong woman who came into my life. I was actually at a wine bar with her when I met my husband. She walked right up to him and told him I thought he was cute. The rest is history, as they say.”

I drag on the cigarette, feeling a little dizzy from it. Or is it from the surprise of this new information?

My mom was in therapy? That doesn’t seem like her at all. Is there a chance she was trying to change? To grow?

I suppose this is the kind of story that I would have heard at her funeral. In theory. Somehow, I sort of thought no one would show up. No one would have anything to say. How many other stories about my mom like this are out there?

To Joel, it sounds like she was…well, normal. It feels impossible to believe it, but there’s a chance other people saw her differently than I did.

Of course, thinking otherwise is ridiculously juvenile. People don’t exist in a vacuum.

There’s something about Joel that seems so normal and cool. And capable. And grown-up. I can’t reconcile that with the fact that my mom and he even got along. And that he’s gay, no less, so presumably she didn’t just get him into bed.

The concept that my mom was more than I knew is far too much for me to consider right now. At this hour. When it’s this cold out. When I’m about to audition. When it’s so recent. When I hated her as much as I did.

So, I sweep it away under the rug like I have been doing with every other emotion related to my mom. Or at least the ones I seem to have a modicum of control over.

My chest stings. I glance inside and see Arabella is gesturing at the door. Her hair is swept back in a bun and she has her dance bag with the ribbons from her pointe shoes cascading out.

“Listen, Joel, I have to go. Thank you so much for all your help. And thanks for talking so late your time—I know the time difference made it difficult to set up a call.”

“Don’t give it another thought. We’ll talk soon when there’s more information to go off of. You take care of yourself, that’s what Brandy would want.”

---