We’re in one of those breakfast restaurants that specialize in giant pancakes. The kind of place with cheap laminate tables and cracked vinyl booths and the same carpeting you see in airports and dental offices. My mother is trying to help my son with the picture he’s drawing on the back of a paper placemat. He doesn’t want her help, but she is relentless, handing him crayon after crayon from the styrofoam cup that sits at the end of the table next to the tray of syrups. She names the colors out loud and asks him to repeat them back to her, as if he were a toddler and only just learning to speak. Dandelion. English Vermillion. Aquamarine. Wild Blue Yonder. Mahogany. Burnt Sienna. Jazzberry Jam. My son is seven years old.

She looms over him, one hand around his shoulder, the other pointing to the parts of his drawing that could be improved with a new color. He could make the grass more lush with Granny Smith Apple. He could add a sunset behind the mushroom cloud with Vivid Tangerine. He could fill in the firetruck with Cerulean.

My son shakes his head. He says, “Fire trucks aren’t blue.”

He smiles because he thinks his grandmother is teasing him, but he doesn’t see the deep lines spreading across her forehead as she studies the crayon in her hand. She holds it up to the light, turns it back and forth, reads the color out loud again to herself. “Cerulean.” Then she turns her troubled gaze on the back of his head, and just for a second, I think she is going to slap him. But of course she doesn’t. Her expression slowly softens and she returns the crayon to the styrofoam cup.

Jacob, my son’s father, sits next to me, engrossed in his French toast. He only looks up from his plate when our waitress walks by. There are beads of syrup in his beard that catch the light coming in through the window. I can feel myself drifting away on these amber strands, thin as spider webs, gleaming in the morning sun.

Our son’s name is Damon. He was named after my father, my mother’s ex-husband. This is her first time visiting since their divorce, and she’s taken to calling him by his middle name, Thomas, sometimes shortening it to Tom or Tommy. This has been a source of tension throughout her stay. We took Damon to the zoo yesterday and she threw a fit when he didn’t respond to her calls.

“Come and look at the peacocks, Tom!” she said. Then, slightly louder, “Tommy! Come see the birds with Grandma!” And finally, “Tommy god dammit, answer me when I’m talking to you!” My mother screamed this across the crowded thoroughfare. The other zoo goers hurried past us while Damon stood twenty feet away, blissfully unaware, mesmerized by a cage of sloths.

“He doesn’t know you’re talking to him,” I said.

“He knows, he just doesn’t want to listen to me. Nobody listens to me.”

“He doesn’t go by Tom. His name is Damon.”

“Names change all the time. That’s why they’re called names.”

Don’t waste your time trying to find meaning in my mother’s idioms. I assure you, there is none to be found.

I try to catch our server’s eye, a pale girl with silver hair and doe eyes, but she has been avoiding my gaze since my mother called her a slut. Or she didn’t call her a slut exactly, she just blurted the word out while looking at the menu—slut—as if it was written there on the page, next to the breakfast platters. Now the poor girl tenses up every time she passes our booth.

I have barely touched my chorizo hash. My mother wants me to know that she’s noticed. She raises her eyebrows a millimeter every time I move my fork. My appetite is always the first thing to go when I’m feeling this way. It has been a lean week. I have not weighed myself, but I can tell I’ve lost several pounds since her arrival. I’m bound to lose a few more before she leaves.

Jacob stirs beside me. Having finished his breakfast, he begins to stretch and groan. “All done there, buddy?” he asks, eyeing the plate Damon has pushed off to the side.

Our son nods solemnly, head down, focused on his drawing.

“Nonsense,” my mother says, “You’ve still got two pancakes left.”

“Mom. If he’s full, he’s full,” I say.

“How do you know he’s full? Are you full, Tom?”

When Damon doesn’t respond to her question, she picks up his plate and drops it in front of him. It crashes onto the table, covering his artwork and sending drops of syrup flying. The couple in the next booth turn to look at us.

Jacob clears his throat and extends his hand halfway across the table. “Marie,” he says gently. My mother takes no notice.

“It’s important to eat your breakfast,” she says. “When your mom was your age, she never finished her meals, and I always told her—”

I am already standing when I scoop the plate off the table. I carry it to the far corner of the counter, where our server is hiding out. A tight-lipped smile materializes on her pink lips when she sees me approach. I ask her if I can pay our bill, doing my best to sound laid-back.

“Sure thing,” she says. Then she sees the plate in my hand. “Do you want that wrapped up?”

“Oh, no thank you. This is just… I’m sorry about before. About what my mother said. She’s not well, you see. She had a stroke.”

The girl gasps. She steps closer to me and places her hand on my forearm. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry to hear that.” She puts her other hand on my forearm. Both of her hands are on me now. “I hope she feels more like herself soon.”

Her reaction makes me uneasy. I don’t like sympathy. It’s like receiving a piece of jewelry as a gift. You’re obliged to wear it, even if it’s ugly. So I kind of smile and nod and I pay for our meal on the machine and I leave her a twenty-five percent tip. As I’m walking back to our booth I think about what she said and it makes me wonder: If my mother doesn’t feel like herself, who does she feel like?

“Alright guys, let’s hit the bricks,” I say.

Jacob is drumming his index fingers on the table. He looks at me and then at my untouched chorizo hash.

“You’re not going to eat that?” he asks.

“Not hungry. Ready to go, honey?”

I run my hand through Damon’s hair, against the grain, feeling it crash over my fingers like a wave. He has his father’s hair, fine and dirty blond. His eyes too, hazel, almond-shaped, long lashes. But the lips, the twisty smile and the little turn at the end of the mouth, that’s mine.

“I’m not done,” Damon says. He’s talking about his drawing.

My mother leans in close to him, smiling mischievously. “Hey mister, I’ve got an idea. We can keep drawing at home if we take these with us. Quick, put them in your pocket.” She begins stuffing crayons into his hands.

“Mom, stop it,” I say through gritted teeth, “We have crayons at home.”

“We like these ones more, don’t we Tom?” she says.

“I’m going to get this wrapped up,” Jacob announces. He slides out of the booth and brushes past me, carrying my plate back towards our waitress, even though there’s a pile of to-go boxes on the counter next to us.

My son looks up at me nervously. I’ve seen this look on his face several times this week. He’s worried that he’s in trouble, that his grandmother has made him an accomplice to something. His hands are full of crayons and she is packing still more into the pockets of his hoodie.

I unclench my jaw and take his small hands in mine and gently pry his fingers apart, letting the crayons fall onto the table in a cascade of garish colors. Without skipping a beat, my mother begins sweeping them into her purse. I lead Damon away from the table and out of the restaurant, steering him from behind by his shoulders.

The air outside is stifling, thick with the mean afternoon heat. I’m dying for a bit of weed. I haven’t smoked at all since my mother arrived. I just want a few puffs to clear the stagnant air out of my lungs. We wait by Jacob’s car in silence, my son staring at his shoes, me squeezing his hand in rapid little pulses, trying to transmit a message of reassurance that I can’t put into words. The placemat dangles from his other hand. He must have grabbed it on the way out.

Like most of his drawings, this one depicts a group of superheroes saving people from all manner of catastrophes. The cityscape is filled with burning buildings and bank robbers and missiles raining from the sky. There are people with comic book speech bubbles calling out for help. Despite all the chaos, the superheroes are always smiling.

Jacob emerges from the restaurant a few minutes later with a to-go box in his hand. My mother is right on his heels, but she stops short at the door and turns back to snag two more styrofoam cups full of crayons from the hostess stand. She shoves these into her purse before making her way over to us.

“Where to next, my boy?” she asks, getting down on her knees. She’s trying to meet Damon’s gaze, but he won’t look at her.

“We’ve got to get home, Mom,” I say.

“Nonsense, the day’s just getting started. Let’s go to the zoo!”

Jacob chuckles uncomfortably. “Uh, again?”

My mother looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “Again what?”

“You want to go to the zoo again?”

She slaps him playfully on the knee. “Don’t tease.”

I hand Damon over to Jacob. “You go with your dad, pal. We’ll see you guys back at the house. Mom, you’re with me,” I say.

I pull my keys out of my purse and just before I turn to leave, I rip the to-go box out of Jacob’s hand. I cut across the parking lot to the garbage can by the bus stop and throw the box inside. It echoes with the satisfying thrum of a kettledrum.

Inside my car, I turn the key in the ignition and switch the AC on full blast. The cold air calms me down a little. My mother hasn’t moved, she’s saying something to Jacob, pointing at me, then pointing at him, pushing her finger into his chest. This goes on for several minutes. The car is nice and cool by the time she climbs in.

“So, what did I do now?” she asks.

“I just want to talk to you for a minute.”

“You mean you want to yell at me some more.”

I put the car in gear and pull out of the parking lot. “Put on your seatbelt.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to put on your seatbelt.”

“Oh for Chrissake, Kay.” She pulls the seatbelt across her lap and slams the buckle into the receiver. The violent motion causes her purse to fall off her lap, spilling crayons everywhere. She closes her eyes.

“You’ve got to get a grip. You can’t talk to people like that,” I say.

“He’s making a fool out of you.”

“What? I’m talking about what you said to the waitress.”

“Oh, that. Please.” She forces out a fake laugh. “Can’t we call a spade a spade anymore? The way she was dressed. No wonder he was staring at her.”

“Who, Damon?” I’m playing dumb. I don’t know why.

“Your husband. Or whatever you call him now. I can’t keep track of all these complicated new labels.”

“Co-parent. It’s not complicated. And he can stare if he wants to. I’m not getting into this again.”

“If it’s like that, then why doesn’t he move out?”

“Because it works for us. It works for Damon. I’m not getting into this again.”

My mother picks her purse off the floor. She digs frantically through the contents with both hands, wrist deep, sending more crayons spilling out over the edges. At last, she emerges with a pack of king size Belmonts.

“Don’t smoke in my car, Mom.”

I hear the flick of her lighter and the sizzle from the burning cherry. We’re at a red light now and I turn to watch the smoke rising from the back of her hand where the skin is thin as tissue paper, revealing a confluence of bright blue veins. I’m dying for a puff of weed. A single puff would be enough. Maybe I can sneak one in the garage when we get home. The car behind us honks.

“Green light,” my mother says, exhaling. “Take me to the airport.”

“Mom. Come on. Don’t do this again.”

“I’m sick of being treated like this!” She explodes, throwing her arms around wildly. “I came to help and you don’t even want me here.”

“Help. What are you here to help me with exactly? You’re not even allowed to drive anymore.”

“Just take me to the airport and let’s be done with it.”

“What are you going to do at the airport? Your flight’s not till Sunday and you don’t have your bags with you.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Alright, have it your way,” I say, changing my tone abruptly, “We’ll go for manicures later. But Damon’s soccer game is tomorrow and I’m in charge of bringing the team snack this week, so we’ll have to swing by the grocery store on the way home.”

She frowns, blinking rapidly, trying to process what I’ve just said. I’ve found that I can sidestep entire arguments this way. Short-circuit her brain. She loses her train of thought all the time these days, and with a little extra nudge, I can make her forget that we were fighting in the first place. Or maybe she just pretends to forget because she’s tired and she knows she’s losing. Either way, it works, but only sometimes. I can tell by the look on her face that it’s not working this time.

“What the hell are you talking about? Stop trying to confuse me. Your father used to do that. Gaslighters, both of you. I don’t have brain damage, you know. I’m fine. Everyone wants to tell me that I’m different now, but I’m not.”

“Something’s different, Mom.”

“You’re the one who changed! I certainly didn’t raise you to let a man walk all over you like this. Climbing into your bed at night stinking of other women. At least I had enough self-respect to walk away when your father started screwing around.”

We’re approaching an intersection and I make a hard left without slowing down. The back tires squeal, my seat belt digs into my collarbone. My mother is thrown against the door.

“Fine,” I say, “I’ll take you to the airport.”

My mother fixes her hair and settles back into her seat, chin held high.

The thing is, she’s right. She doesn’t have brain damage. This was confirmed at her most recent follow-up.

She was lucky, we were told. Less than ten percent of patients make a full recovery from an ischemic stroke. A blood clot cut off circulation to her frontal lobe for just over fifteen minutes. In that time, millions of synapses suffocated and died. And yet her brain began repairing itself almost instantly, rerouting the broken neural pathways and building fresh ones like diligent road workers fixing a freeway. Her limp, the slurred speech, the one drooping eye—symptoms which last months or years for most patients—were all gone within a few weeks.

Eight months after her discharge from the hospital, my father called to tell me they were getting separated. I’ve always believed you can tell the nature of a phone call by its ring. I was on my lunch break at the time and I lost my appetite before I even looked at the caller ID. He danced around the subject at first, asking about work and Damon, before finally stumbling into it, as if the thought had just occurred to him, like oh by the way. He tried to sound optimistic. He used terms like reset and regroup, but it was obvious even then, he would never take her back. Behind all the remorse in his voice, I could hear the overwhelming relief.

I never made a call like that when Jacob and I split up. Not to my parents, not to anyone. I didn’t know how to explain it. It’s not like anything changed in our relationship, we always knew it was going to happen, even when we were happy, before Damon was born. Divorce was this unstoppable thing barreling towards us. All we could do was try to enjoy ourselves before it arrived.

It was different with my mother. She didn’t call, she texted. Long, rambling texts with no punctuation, one thought exploding into the next. Of course in her mind, she was leaving him. Infidelity was just one of the many accusations she leveled against him. I told her I didn’t believe her, and I didn’t at the time. But I never apologized when I found out it was true.

She’s half-asleep when we arrive at the airport. It almost looks like she’s praying, the way her head keeps nodding forward. I pull into the pick-up and drop-off lane and find an empty spot alongside the curb. All around us people are hugging and waving and handing off suitcases. It’s hard to tell who is saying hello and who is saying goodbye. A man wearing a reflective vest trolls by, surveying the scene, taking note of license plates.

“We’re here,” I say.

I squeeze her leg and she jerks awake at my touch. She looks out the window and then back at me with the same expression she gave a blue crayon earlier today.

“We’re at the airport,” I say.

“Oh. Right. Well,” she says. She moves as if to grab the door handle, but then changes her mind and pulls down the sun visor to look at herself in the mirror. Then she pulls a tube of lipstick out of her pocket and tries to apply the rose-colored makeup to her bottom lip, but she can’t because her hands are shaking too much. So she grabs hold of the mirror and tries to hold it steady, as if the shaking is only a problem with her reflection.

“Mom,” I say.

“Just a minute. Just a minute.”

I wait. The vehicles on either side of us leave and new ones take their place. The man in the reflective vest finishes his lap of the area and is on his way back toward us, his gaze fixed on my car.

I squeeze her leg again, this time playfully.

“Okay, you win,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. She turns to look at me, her lips still pursed, a ridiculous expression frozen on her face. “We’ll take Damon to the movie tonight, but after this we need to get him back to a normal bedtime. School’s starting soon and it’ll be hard enough to get him up in the morning.”

She can’t decide where to look. Her eyes keep moving between me, the lipstick in her hand, and her own reflection. The man in the reflective vest is approaching my car, tapping his watch. I give him a smile and a wave to let him know we’re on our way.

“Ready to go?” I ask. I put the key in the ignition, but I don’t turn it yet.

Slowly my mother’s lips flatten out against her teeth into a smile.

“Ready,” she says.

We start driving and after a while I turn on the radio. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. My mother finishes putting on the lipstick and then closes her eyes, but I can tell she’s awake. I’ve decided that when we get home I’m going to take a walk around the block and smoke half a joint. Then I’ll ask Jacob to barbecue for dinner and I’m sure I’ll be hungry by then. We’re on the freeway and I’m imagining the taste of grilled pork belly and I decide to close my eyes. Just for a few seconds. Just because I know the road will still be there, even when I’m not looking, and there’s something very comforting about that.