I inherited this great skin, but I look twenty-nine. I might look well into my thirties, on a bad day. Being accused of murder has aged me prematurely.
I walk to the bed and give her a quick hug. She smells like perfume. Probably expensive, but I wouldn’t know. All perfume smells like flowery garbage to me.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says. “Your grandmother is being impossible about this party. The woman won’t even let us take her out to dinner for most of her birthdays and now she suddenly wants a huge shindig with the entire family? And she tells me two weeks beforehand? I think she’s trying to kill me just so she can brag about outliving her daughter.”
I don’t argue, because that does sound like Grandma.
I perch on the edge of her bed. “How’s the leg? Did they give you some good pain meds?”
“I don’t need pain medication.” She waves her hand dismissively. Mom has more of a Texas accent than Dad or I do, and it makes everything she says sound friendly. She grew up here, in Plumpton, but Dad didn’t move to Texas until college. I lost what little accent I had after a couple of years away. I’m not sad about it.
“How’d you even get up here?”
“I just used my crutches.” She flexes her biceps. “The doctor said it would be difficult, but it was a breeze. All those sessions with the personal trainer are paying off.”
“When did you become a gym rat?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t believe I like that term. But exercise is very important for older women. Do you still spend all those hours on the treadmill?”
“Yes.” Running until I can’t think is the only way I stay sane, most days.
Well, relatively sane.
“Maybe they’ll let you use my pass while I’m injured. I’ll remind them that I’m not suing.”
“Very big of you.”
She pats my hand. “Now, I want you to feel free to go wherever while you’re in town. I told several people that you’re coming so that no one will be surprised. I’m sure it’s spread all around town by now.”
“I’m sure.”
“I do hope you’ll go out and see folks.” Her hand is still on mine, and she looks at me anxiously.
“No one wants to see me, Mom.”
“Sure they do. And I think it’s best if you don’t hide. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, do you?”
It’s a genuine question, one that requires my response. Mom asks me constantly, in a million different ways, whether I murdered Savvy. Maybe she thinks that if she asks enough, I’ll eventually let it slip that I did indeed bash my friend’s brains in. I have to admire her persistence.
“No, I don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” I lie.
“That’s right, dear.” That’s what she always says when she thinks I’m lying.
And my mom definitely thinks I’m lying about not remembering the night that Savvy died. She tried for years to get me to confess.
She pestered me to come back home after I left for L.A.—“If you’re back here, you might remember something. Or you might feel compelled to share something new. Have you seen the memorial they did for Savvy?”
She tried the god approach—“You need to confess and atone for your sins here if you want to be forgiven in the next life.”
She gave logic a whirl—“You were the only one with Savvy that night, so I think that it’s time to face facts.”
She went for guilt （by far her favorite）—“Do you know what that family is going through? They need an explanation.”
There is nothing my mother wants more than for me to confess to killing Savvy. Not just because she thinks it’s the right thing to do, but because she would excel as the mother of a murderer.
She’d be a star at church. She’d give long speeches about forgiveness. She’d write a book about overcoming the guilt she felt at raising a murderer. Sometimes I think that she’s angrier about me depriving her of this than she is about me actually （maybe） murdering someone. Mom enjoys being the best at everything, and I’ve denied her the opportunity to be the best mother of a murderer. You can’t be the best mother of a woman suspected of murder. That just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
I stand, and her hand slips off mine. “Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m fine, hon.” She smiles up at me, and I head to the door. “By the way, I don’t know if anyone told you, but that podcaster is back in town. Might want to keep an eye out.”