Page 92 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

A shiver goes through Mom, as if she’s reliving it.

“He was screaming, making ultimatums, and then it all got so clear to me. I’d lost you because of him. Lost so many things. Gavril had come with some friends, luckily. Tough-looking guys, I tell ya! Anyway, he looked to me and I nodded and they threw Damon out.” A grin cracks over Mom’s face. “I’ll tell ya, it felt darn good. I tossed out his stupid empty beer cans after him.”

She heaves a sigh. “But enough of that—let me give you the grand tour!”

And so she does. She shows me the bathroom—tiled with porcelain blue butterflies, and decked out with more plants, of course.

She shows me her bedroom, the riot of pink and black so darling that I wonder if Gavril’s designer Miranda was responsible for it, too, with a four-door closet that looks a bit silly, given that she has only her few meager pieces of clothing inside.

“Your husband was all set to buy me a new wardrobe, too,” Mom admits in a scolding tone, “Tried to give me enough Nordstrom cards to last me until the next century! No, I told him, he’d done enough already.”

She shows me the kitchen, all shiny black marble surfaces, with something familiar-smelling in a pot on the stove. Mom gives it a stir and slinks an uncertain look my way. “I thought maybe … for old time’s sake.”

I peek in and laugh. “I’ve missed chili, you know!”

Mom’s face brightens. “Really? I thought that maybe with your, you know, new tastes and everything, maybe you wouldn’t want—”

I stop her there, taking her hand. “Mom. Stop. I haven’t become a snob overnight.”

“That’s not what I …” she trails off, because that’s clearly what she was afraid of.

“In fact,” I continue, getting out my phone, “I know just the thing that we’re overdue for.”

Seconds later, I’ve gotten the YouTube video going, and the opening guitar chords are streaming out of my phone speakers.

A great big grin breaks out on Mom’s face. “You didn’t.”

I grin right on back at her. “I did.”

And then Lynyrd Skynyrd is belting away, and we’re singing along, “Big wheels keep on turning / Carry me home to see my kin …”

We sing along, do some air guitar. I grab a ladle, pass another to Mom, just in time for us to belt out the chorus into them like microphones, “Sweet home Alabama / Where the skies are so blue …”

We’re switching ladles, using them to tap the beat on the shiny fancy countertops in this shiny fancy kitchen, all of which means nothing, really, because everything that matters is here beside me, singing this song along with me. What matters is that Mom is going to be okay, at long last. Finally, we are both going to be okay. I can see that now.

After the final lyric, Mom laughs, laughs so hard that by the end she’s wheezing, leaning on the countertop, her forehead pained. “Sorry. I just feel so good these days that I forget …”

“You’re still sick,” I say, remembering. “God, Mom, I’m so sorry, I …”

She waves me quiet with the ladle. “Now, none of that. I haven’t even told you my diagnosis yet.” She straightens, smiles a little as if to remind herself, and exhales. “Dr. Wicker is confident that with treatment and no smoking, I’ll make a full recovery.”

As I help Mom over to a nearby leather armchair, I say carefully, “No smoking.”

Mom laughs wheezily. “I know what you’re thinking—how many times did I try to switch over to e-cigarettes or Nicorette or go cold turkey? You know what I think did it this time?” Mom smirks impishly, sweeps her arms around. “This swanky place. I feel like a complete bum going over to the balcony—crap, I didn’t even show you the balcony!—and lighting up. Plus, this place smells so nice. I don’t want to ruin that.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I tell Mom softly, sitting on a nearby couch.

She makes a dismissive noise. “You’re proud of me? Joy, I’m so proud of you. You followed your heart. Didn’t make the same mistakes I did.”

“Yeah,” I say sheepishly, turning away, hoping she doesn’t catch the look on my face. There it is again, that lie, worming in and ruining everything. Anything to change the subject. “Movie time?”

“Indiana Jones?” Mom says.

“… and the Raiders of the Lost Ark?” I say.

She grins. “As if there’s any other reasonable choice.” And, minutes later, we’re parked in front of the massive HD TV, a bowl of her famous chili in hand, watching Harrison Ford work his bullwhip magic.

By the end, Mom’s passed out. I give her a final hug, wash the dishes, and spread a soft blanket over top of her. Then, I kiss her forehead. “Bye, Mom. Thanks for everything.”

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