Page 136 of Pick-Up
“Yes. But a fancy word!”
Suddenly, her brow furrows. She looks distracted and stressed. She reaches over to the counter, grabs her black purse and sets it in front of her like she’s about to dissect it. She unzips it and begins to rifle through. I have never seen so many pockets.
“What are you looking for?”
Instead of answering me, she begins muttering to herself. “Was it in the outside pocket? I could have sworn I put them in this left side pouch. Lord. I hope I didn’t lose them again!”
“Mom. Lose what?”
Keys? Wallet? Obviously something essential.
“Aha!” she exclaims, startling me. She is holding a container of white Tic Tacs above her head like a championship belt. “There they are. Want one?”
Who is this woman? One minute she seems like my mother. A literacy advocate. Well-dressed. Haughty to a fault. The next she seems childlike, unhinged.
I shake my head.
“Suit yourself.” She pops four in her mouth, as she points to a dish on my counter. “Can you grab that dark chocolate, too? It’s a great combo.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Whatever is causing her mental shift is definitely messing withmy mind too. A wave of nausea passes over me as I sit and stare at this stranger.
“Sasha! The chocolate!”
Right. I grab the bar and hand it to her; she rips into it. Emotional eating in style.
“Okay!” I say, with inappropriate gusto as I sit back down. “So, changes?”
But she is back in her bag, for the love of God. “I need my glasses.” She starts taking objects out and placing them on the table. Pauses. “What am I looking for again?”
“Mom!” I say, unable to contain my anxiety. “Your glasses!”
“Oh, right.”
How bad is this? I am beginning to envision the worst. Strings of doctor’s visits, waning abilities, her forgetting my kids’ names. My dad’s broken heart. Me, a spinster, eating pasta with my parents at the assisted-living facility buffet. Where the marinara sauce is V8.
It’s at moments like this that I wish I had a sibling.
“Let me,” I say. I drag her bag over and plunge into its depths, excavating for her glasses. And that’s when I notice. And stop dead in my tracks.
“Mom,” I say, holding up a blue pill bottle. “What isthis?”
She scrunches her nose. “That? Oh, it’s nothing. Just the new medicine I’m taking for my neck.”
There is a giant pot leaf insignia on the label. I dig inside her bag and find two more bottles.
I look at them. At her. Then back at them again. My mouth drops open.
“Mom,” I say. “What doctor prescribed these to you?”
“I told you! Carol’s guy.”
“Carol’s doctor?”
“No. I don’t think he’s a doctor exactly. Just a guy.”
