Page 50 of Revive Me

And I have Lily’s number in my pocket.

I must have a look of shell-shocked glee on my face, because the moment I load into my mom’s van, she does a triple-take.

“Oh my God, what happened?” she demands. “You look…happy. Youneverlook happy after therapy. What happened??”

I debate for a moment if I just want to deny everything to avoid the conversation but…shelooks so happy that I can’t do it to her.

I let out a heavy breath and make a half-admission. “I managed some assisted walking today.”

Thank God, she hasn’t pulled out of the parking lot yet, because her jaw-drop tells me it would’ve resulted in a brake-slam.

“Roman!” she squeals. And when nothing else comes out, she says it again. “Roman!”

I huff a laugh. “I know, I was pretty shocked, too.”

“This is huge! Oh my gosh, we have to celebrate.”

Victory aside, I’m still hesitant to truly hope. “I still have a long way to go. This just means the therapy is working.”

“Apparently.” Her eyes dart over to the clinic building. “Any idea what’s different about this place?”

Yeah. The therapist.

“No idea,” I lie instead. “I’m just glad it’s working.”

Her focus moves back to me, a warm smile on her face. “Me too, sweetheart,” she says softly.

I return the smile, my chest warming at the sight of my mom being so giddy.

Her excitement is still palpable when she faces forward and grips the steering wheel. “Alright, well, even if you don’t want to celebrate, I still want to do something special. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” I answer. “Always.”

Once a week, Mom and I do a breakfast for dinner date night. It was recommended by an old therapist a year ago, and the idea stuck. Her theory was that with Mom being my sole caretaker and a huge crutch for me, I needed to remember that she was still my mother, too. That she loved me outside of my injury and would always be a mother over a nurse. She suggested we put a weekly date on the calendar to ensure we spend time together as a family. We’ve tried movie nights, brunch dates, and a dozen other ideas, but the one we keep coming back to a breakfast for dinner. I think because it reminds me of my childhood, and the nights that Mom gave in to my near-constant requests for pancakes. Now, we make the pancakes together, chatting about our week as we cook. It’s easy, comforting.

When we reach the house, Mom is still chattering about the bonus breakfast foods she’s going to make tonight, reciting her grocery list to herself and planning to make way too much food for two people.

“Anyway, honey, I’m going to run out to the grocery store real quick and grab what we need,” she says. “Should we say dinner at eight?”

I nod. “Perfect. That gives me some time to clean myself and the house a little bit.”

“You know I could do that for you,” she says in the mothering tone she occasionally defaults to. Sure enough, when I give her a look that reads as my usual answer ofplease don’t baby me, she reddens.

“Sorry, that just came out,” she mumbles. “I promise that was a mom instinct, not a pity one.”

I lean across the van to kiss her on the cheek. “I know, Mom. I appreciate you.” I start to unhook my chair so I can unload from the van. “Eight o’clock, then. It’s a date.”

When I enter my house, I do a scan to see how much I need to clean up before Mom gets back. The cleanliness of my house has always been an obvious representation of my well-being, because in the past, usually during my deepest depressive episodes, the house would become disgusting. I couldn’t summon the energy to do anything besides order takeout and play video games, and that always resulted in unswept floors, dishes in the sink and all over the counter, and rotten food in the fridge. That was the only time in my life when Momdidneed to come in to clean, if for no other reason than to keep me from getting sick.

But lately, I’ve been keeping up with everything, for the most part. Looking around now, I decide there’s not a lot I need to do besides unloading the dishwasher, wiping down the counters, and straightening a few things in the living room. I throw my couch blanket in the wash and turn the Roomba on for good measure, but beyond that, I don’t have much on the to-do list.

I shower and change into fresh clothes, realizing I still have an hour before Mom shows up. So I decide to kill time by starting in on the tasks I’ve been putting off.

When Mikey walks in a little before eight o’clock, I’m in the middle of unloading the books from my bookshelves and dusting.

Having heard the beep of the front door keypad, I finish wiping down the shelf I’m on before I turn around. When I do, I find Mikey staring slack-jawed at the sight in front of him.

“Did I just walk into Bizarro World?” he asks.

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