Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis Page B

overzealous juicer who wants to reorganize her drawers. Her mood is remarkably upbeat compared to the day I got here, when she felt pretty strongly that she didn’t have the time or the interest to fight cancer or learn the nuances of her own diagnosis. Now she is a superhero. Ready for anything. Armed with juice and a good attitude. Somewhere, in there, is my mom.
    She moves on from the folding of pillowcases, and starts making the bed while I’m still in it. She fluffs the pillow and straightens the bed skirt. She hasn’t made my bed since I was five. Even then, Maris did it, but Mom fluffed the pillows. You know, that final touch.
    â€œCan you get up so I can make the bed?” Mom says. “It’s hard to work around you. I like to have all the beds made before I go out.”
    â€œI know,” I say. “I remember when you’d wake me up so my bed could be made so that you could leave the house.”
    â€œI never did that,” Mom says, smiling.
    â€œYou just did it now,” I say.
    â€œI could help you pack today,” Mom says. “We could go to the box store after our walk. They have everything you could want, at least as far as boxes go.”
    â€œPack for what?” I say. Besides, boxes should be free.
    â€œFor when you move back in,” Mom says. Her face changes here. She’s terribly disappointed that I don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s hurt. I never said I’d move back in with her. Yes, I’ve been sleeping here, but move back in?
    â€œI’m not moving back in,” I say. “I thought I’d stay with you for a few nights and help out. I live only nine blocks away. I can be here when you need me. I’ve quit my job. I’m available whenever you call now.”
    I should have had the foresight to buy twenty blocks away, like Marjorie.
    â€œOh,” Mom says, starting to leave the room. The fantasy about the trip to the box store is all behind her now.
    â€œWait a minute. Stop. When did I say I was moving back in?” I ask.
    â€œLast week,” Mom says.
    â€œI never said that,” I say.
    â€œYou asked what I needed. I said I needed you here. You said okay. I didn’t expect you to give up your life and move back home, but you offered, and I accepted,” Mom says. “You’ve been here night and day. Why would you be spending the night if you weren’t planning to live here?”
    â€œThat is just so interesting,” I say.
    I feel like I’m talking, and over my words she lays the big old crazy filter, and suddenly she hears something different from what I said. It’s been happening for three decades.
    â€œIt’ll be just like old times,” Mom says. “You can help me clean out my closets; that way you won’t have to do it alone.”
    â€œI think we need to work on being more optimistic. I know you’re scared, but your own doctor said the patients he’d seen in your situation all live very long lives,” I say.
    â€œI love Dr. Kealy, you know I do. But he can’t be more than forty years old. Who knows what his definition of long life is? Fifty? Sixty, tops,” Mom says.
    She’s serious. She wants me to move back home.
    â€œI remember how you used to like to throw cold water on me when I was in the shower…” I say.
    â€œOnly when you were overdoing it,” Mom says. “Long showers are a mistake.”
    â€œWhy?” I ask.
    She doesn’t elaborate.
    â€œWhy?” I ask again.
    â€œI’m going to make a smoothie,” Mom says.
    â€œI like pulp, by the way,” I say.
    â€œNo, you don’t, and you never have,” Mom says. “So if you like it now, you’re just being disagreeable.”
    She’s good! For a split second there, I thought maybe I didn’t like pulp.

Life Coach versus Food Coach
    WE’RE AT MARJORIE’S table at Le Bilboquet. My sister is eighteen