Page 95 of My Cosplay Escape
“It’s okay, Mom.”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “It was stupid and selfish. And now I have lemon juice in my eyes.”
I hand her a clean tea towel.
She smooths the towel in her hands. “Did you have a name picked out?”
I lean against the white porcelain of the farmhouse kitchen sink, which uncharacteristically is brimming with dirty dishes. “No. I had a few I wanted to ask her about when I met her.” I inhale low and long and catch a whiff of fresh bread mingled with all the citrus and ginger. “Elinor was my favorite.”
My mom blows her nose, loudly, into the blue dishtowel. “Oh, honey, it isn’t fair.” She tosses the towel in the sink. “It isn’t fair that you had to walk through any of it, and it especially isn’t fair that you don’t even have your daughter with you now. I’m the one who’s sorry.” She folds me up into a tight hug again. I have to stoop, because Mom is four inches shorter than me. “You’ve been through so much. And I… I didn’t know what to do. Even when I knew what was going on, like with the divorce, I didn’t know what to do about it.” She releases me from the hug only to rest her hands on my cheeks. She’s still crying.
“The lemon juice still stinging your eyes, Mom?” I ask gently.
“I worried I was losing you. I worried you’d given up on everything. I should have been there for you. I could have put my foot down or reached out. But I convinced myself that you were tough. And you are.” Mom sniffs and reaches for a new dishtowel. This one’s a bright yellow. “My girl, my strong girl, running goldfish knows how many miles, working her tail off at that gym, paying down her student loans, and still finding time for all her study groups.”
I groan and rest my head on the kitchen counter. “Mom. I have something to tell you.”
“Oh goldfish, honey.” Mom sounds absolutely panicked. I hear her furiously cutting into her pile of oranges. “I don’t know if I have enough citrus to get through this. I’ve failed you before—”
“You’ve never failed me, Mom.” I slide over and give her a hand. “I have a second job. A side hustle.”
“Tell me you’re not selling drugs on the corner of Grand and Balboa.”
Seriously? “You know the escape room on Garnet Ave?”
“Baby, I need a drink.” The juicer is on again, and the ginger is reduced to a pale, milky dribble, followed quickly by the pile of peeled and quartered oranges. “The what now?”
“The escape room,” I yell. “Adam’s escape room. You solve puzzles and stuff to unlock doors?”
“Okay,” Mom says, flicking off the juicer and pouring two glasses of carrot, ginger, lemon, orange juice.
“I work there. And it’s themed.”
Mom mutters a prayer under her breath. I’m pretty sure she is promising her pension to the church in exchange for my deliverance.
“Superheroes,” I say.
“Superheroes?” She swigs her juice fast, like a shot. She’s added so much ginger, it may as well be. “You mean like Magnificent Man?”
“Nightbat, actually.”
She adds a pinch of salt to the juice remaining in the large glass pitcher. “Who do you dress up as?”
I take a deep breath. “Catstrike.”
Mom considers, swirls the pitcher, and pours out another two glasses of juice. “1960s camp?”
I shake my head.
“Not the one with ripped leather pants?” She hands me a glass.
“No! The ’90s Catstrike fromNightbat Returns.”
“For reals?” Mom laughs and clinks my glass. “That’s the best one.”
“For reals.” Now I down my juice like it’s a shot. Ooh! Not doing that again. “Since when do you know superhero movies?”
“Since book club.”
