Page 43 of The Love Playbook

“You called?” She turns away from me, patting the blankets around her as if searching for something. “I must’ve misplaced my phone.”

I hum under my breath as I take a seat on the edge of her bed because I don’t believe for one second she doesn’t know exactly where her phone is. If anything, she’s spending her days trolling my father on Facebook and hoping for a glimpse of his new fiancée.

“Carol called,” I say, glancing around the room, spotting the dirty clothes spilling from the hamper. “She’s worried about you.”

Mom scoffs and rolls her eyes but says nothing.

“Said you haven’t been to work this week.”

Mom stiffens, clearing her throat before she says, “Yes, well, I was feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Did you call in sick? Did they approve time off?”

“Of course,” she mutters but not before she lifts her hand to rub her nose, and I groan.

“You didn’t, did you? You didn’t call off or get time approved. You just didn’t show up.”

“I told you?”

“Yeah, but you did the nose rub thing. That’s your tell, Mom. I know you’re lying.” I curse under my breath and inhale, trying to contain my anger and failing. “Mom, you’ll lose your job. Youcan’t just not show up at work for an entire week without even letting them know.”

“They’ll understand, and if they don’t, then I don’t need to work for a company like theirs.”

“And what kind of company is that? One that expects their employees to show up?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustrated. “No. You need this job, Mom. You cannot afford to lose it. Do you understand that?” I search her face, but her expression is blank, placid, like tepid water. “Your alimony payments have dried up. They’re over. This is the only income you have, and if you get canned for not showing up at work, you won’t receive unemployment, either.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine.” I rake my hands through my hair, wondering what I can do to get her to snap out of it, knowing that nothing I say will make a difference. I’ve been through this a million times before, and I’ve never been enough to get through to her. The only one who ever made a difference was my father, but even his effect on her mental health was limited, and in the end, he left.

“When was the last time you showered?” I ask, eyeing her. “Cooked a hot meal? Went for a walk? Got some fresh air or went to the grocery store?”

“I told you, I don’t?”

“Feel well. Yeah, I know. It’s the story of your life,” I snap.

Or more aptly, the story of my life, and I’m so sick of reading the same ending over and over again. “But you need to get up. You need to take care of yourself, brush your teeth and your hair, and get out of the house,” I say, motioning with my hands. “You need to see Dr. Sherri. You need to make sure you’re taking your meds, and youneedto go to work.”

“I can’t,” she wails, tears springing to her eyes. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” She shakes her head, her brown hair falling over her face like a waterfall.

“You can. And you will.”

She sobs, and my stomach clenches, but my heart is oddly silent. Maybe I’ve finally gone numb.

“I don’t want to,” she wails. “I don’t care what happens anymore.”

My hands fist at my sides, her words wrapping like barbed wire around my heart, because why can’t she just do this for me? Why am I never enough to get through to her?

“I know you don’t feel well. I know you’re sad. But it’s part of being an adult. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do.”

Like come to your mother’s rescue because she can’t find the fucking energy to get out of bed.

Her body shakes in answer, a keening sound coming from the back of her throat.

“Come on.” I stand from the bed and whip the covers off my mother while she moans. “You’re going to get up and get a shower,” I say, reaching for her hands where I grip them in mine and tug.

She resists at first, but eventually, she stands and follows like an extra fromThe Walking Deadinto the master bathroom.

Standing in her pajamas, she watches as I turn the shower on and check the water, then grab her a towel and a washcloth. “You’re going to have a nice hot shower and wash your hair and shave your legs, and then you’re going to come out to the kitchen and eat something at the table like a functioning adult. Afterward, you’re going to call Hartfield & Associates and leave a message. Even if no one is in the office, you’re going to apologize for missing work and explain you had a family emergency and beg to keep your job. You’re also going to tell them you’ll be therefirst thing tomorrow morning, bright and early, and you’ll work Saturday if you have to.”

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