Page 45 of I Hope This Finds You Well

“Sure.” I smile back as best I can.

I find Mom in my kitchen, the empty chip bag and wonton container already in each hand. “Jolene, you can’t keep soup in the cupboard. It goes in the fridge.”

I snatch them and say, “Thanks, that’s a really good hack, but those are garbage. Can you stop opening my cupboards? I’ll go through them later. I have a system.”

But before I can finish, she is in the cupboard under the sink. My overflowing trash can and the three empty bottles of gin sit there like accusations.

“Are you really drinking this much?”

“No, those bottles are from months ago. And I used some for making sanitizer.” My most bonkers lie to date. I scoop them up and gather them against my chest. “I’ll put them in the dumpster.”

She actually jumps. “Don’t throw away, they give money at the depot for this! Albert, come take these bottles for Jolene to get the money.”

Dad, who is sitting on the couch so awkwardly that it looks like his seat is made of Velcro, says, “I’m sure Jolene can take them in. She’s in her thirties.”

“Yes, I can. And yes, Iam,thanks.”

Mom waves her hand half-heartedly in our direction before setting the bowl of ashe reshteh on the counter and popping off the lid. The glorious smell wafts toward me. She’s added so much goat whey and charred garlic that it almost makes everything that’s happening right now worth it.

Almost.

I take a serving and slurp the first bit. This is the best hangover cure. “Thanks for bringing this.”

She riffles through my other cupboards, shaking her head. “I madeit so you don’t have to worry about your lunches this week. You need to focus on your work. Now where is your cleaning supplies? These counters need wiping.”

“Don’t worry about cleaning, I’ll do it later. You sit and visit.”

She looks at all ten of my heads. “This place is not something I can stop worrying about. This is not how a polite person lives.” She turns to my drawers next, clucking her tongue with disdain. “Why not clean after you eat? What do people say when they visit?”

There’s no way I’ve let another human in here—the place speaks for itself.

I take a breath. “Well, normally I’d have some kind of warning. People don’t just show up to other people’s homes, especially when they’re still sleeping.”

She narrows her eyes. “You were sleeping? It’s nine thirty. You could’ve been studying for your promotion.”

“I don’t think there’s going to be a test.” Although, given that it’s Supershops Incorporated, there will probably be a non-harassment training module with a quiz at the end.

She scoffs as she wipes my counter with a cloth that is suddenly in her hands, seemingly produced from nowhere. “It’s good to study your job anyways.”

There’s no such thing as winning when the argument is wackadoodle, so I smile and say, “How’s your window garden?”

“I grow the most beautiful cilantro.” Her smile is smug. “Next week, I bring you some.”

I’m about to interject about her plan to return next week, but I’m just happy to hear she’s gardening again. She finishes wiping and shakes her head.

“Jolene, this mess is really bad. How come you’re living like this? It’s like you don’t care.” She says this with all the severity of a doctor making a deadly diagnosis. “Are you okay?”

The crease in her brow—I hate that crease, critical and concerned all at once. I need to curl into a ball. I scramble for some excuse to make it go away. “The problem is that I caretoo muchand don’t know where to start.”

She fake slaps the space between us in a dismissive gesture, her acrylic nails cutting the air like little claws. “Get on with you. It’s very serious to be this bad.” And to prove her point, she wipes the cloth under a windowsill that I’m pretty sure nobody has ever cleaned in the history of this apartment’s construction. “This dust is from long time ago.” She hardens her gaze accusingly, and I stiffen—she is not done with me yet. “How are you going to have a boyfriend over?”

And there it is. She’s pushed the exact buttons that set me off. I look toward my dad in some useless, last-ditch plea for help, but he’s already absorbed in his iPad. I want to scream.

Ever since Ellie’s accident, my parents cannot stop managing my every move. And in the aftermath of a town of people sharing the same bad thought about me, all they truly seem concerned about is making sure that I fit the appearance of a perfectly functioning member of society.

But I don’t want to rehash this same old argument. I say what I need to through clenched teeth. “I’m not trying to have a boyfriend over.”

Mom huffs. “You have no friends?”