Page 18 of The Fast Lane
Mom shook her head but stared at Dad the entire time he walked away, a hint of appreciation in her eyes. “That man does drive me crazy, but the backside on him is?—”
“Gross, Mom.”
“You should be grateful to have parents still married after all these years.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Divorced-parent guilt and stepparents would have meant more presents at Christmas.”
“Alicia!”
With a grin, I slung an arm around her waist. “Love you.”
After a moment, she unfolded her arms and hugged me back. “Did you pack your medication?”
“Yes.” I sighed.
“And your rescue meds?”
“Yes.”
“What about the first aid kit?” After I nodded, she continued, “I can print you out another page with all the important phone numbers on it if you need it.”
“Mom.” I dropped my arm and took a step back.
“I want you to be prepared. You never know when you’ll have another seizure.”
I slumped. That was the real crux of it.
Ever since that first seizure when I was sixteen, my mother had made it her mission to keep me safe. If she could get away with covering me in feathers and bubble wrap and writing “Fragile” on my forehead in permanent marker, she would. I understood her worry. Really, I did. I tried to be patient with her.
I’d had to deal with so many aspects of having epilepsy—the years of breakthrough seizures before finding the right combination of medications; the knowledge I’d probably take that medication my entire life; the fear that even after years of being seizure-free, they could return with no warning. But sometimes the hardest part was the guilt, the guilt that I caused so much worry in the people I loved.
“Mom,” I said gently. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I know. I know. I just worry.” That was an understatement. My mother took worry to Olympic gold medal heights.
“And?”
“And I need to respect your boundaries and give you the space to be independent,” she said, like a kid reciting the state capitals in class.
That was because it was, word for word, the “contract” I’d had her sign six months ago after a particularly alarming episode involving my mother bursting into my apartment after I hadn’t answered my phone. I had been in the shower; Naked Ali had not been happy. We’d had a long talk after that and came up with a contract of sorts. It was still pretty touch-and-go.
You know those women who have a passel of boy children, get pregnant again and people ask them things like, “Trying for a girl, huh?” Most are quick to say, “Oh, no, I just want a healthy baby.”
Not my mom though. I’d heard the tales of her proclaiming she would only be giving birth to a girl and that was that. God, perhaps not willing to deal with the amount of complaining that would come from my mother if she didn’t get one, obliged. And thus, I liked to say she pretty much willed me into existence.
From as early as I could remember, I was wearing frilly pink dresses and giant hairbows. Gymnastics and dance classes started when I was four. We had girls’ nights from the time I was ten. We’d curl up in bed and watch a movie together, paint our nails, and try out face masks. My mom and I were close. Did she make me want to pull my hair out sometimes? Sure. Was she a lot to handle? Also, yes. But my mom was the best even in those moments, too.
“So. The centerpieces.” I pointed at the boxes and boxes of stuff in the back of Theo’s SUV. It was a good thing it had third row seating. He’d already packed it with his camping gear. After the wedding, he’d be going on a month-long, solo camping trip, something he did every summer, and I’d drive back home with my parents.
“Yes, the candles.” She clapped her hands with excitement. “They are darling. In fact, I’ve started selling them online and they’ve been a big hit.”
“Oh, really?”
“I posted a video of my newest candle and people are ordering so fast I can’t keep up. I had to start a waitlist.” Mom whipped her phone out. “Let me see if I can find the pictures.”
I tuned her out as she began describing with intricate detail the candles and centerpieces and I don’t know what else.
Dad and Theo returned, shoving the two boxes in the car.