Now That You Mention It

On the ninth night of my convalescence, my mother told Poe and me to get out of the house. “I have something going on here,” she said. “Can you two go out for ice cream or something?”

“I’m injured,” I said. “And I just took a Vicodin, so I can’t drive.” Also, Game of Thrones was on, and like any good viewer, I was in love with Jon Snow.

“Then go upstairs and close your door,” she said.

“I’m a little old to be sent to my room.”

“Believe me, you’ll want to go,” Poe said.

“Why?”

“It’s work,” my mother said. But her cheeks flushed.

Now that was odd. My mother never blushed. Ever. Nothing embarrassed her. Once, when I was in high school and Mom was in the throes of a particularly gruesome menopause (or meno-go, as the case was), she’d bled so much at the grocery store that she left a red trail in her wake. She’d opened a package of paper towels, cleaned up and added an economy-size box of adult diapers to our cart. Didn’t so much as flinch.

So her blushing now... Was this one of those sex-toy parties? “What kind of work?” I asked.

“It’s a new venture,” she said, putting Tweety in the cage. At least there was that.

“What kind of new venture?”

“Nora, just get upstairs,” she growled.

“It’s hug therapy,” Poe said.

I snorted. No one else cracked a smile. “Seriously?” No answer. “Mom, if you need a hug, I’m right here.” I tried to remember our last hug. Failed.

“I give the hugs, Nora. I don’t get them.”

“Really?”

“People pay for it,” Poe said.

“Like prostitution?”

My mother frowned. “It’s a recognized therapy—”

“Recognized by whom?”

“—and people are pathetic and will pay for just about anything,” my mother said.

“That’s beautiful.”

“And sometimes, they take a nap here.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Just fix your face and get upstairs. Take your dog with you.”

“Don’t you want him for pet therapy? Which is actually a recognized therapy?”

“Nora, get.”

I glanced at Poe, who, for once, made eye contact. “Does she turn into a pillar of salt when someone touches her?” I asked. “Get!” my mother said, her face redder now.

Boomer raced up the stairs, then back down, then up again as I hobbled up the stairs. Rather than going into our room, I paused. “Let’s spy,” I suggested.

“It’s gross,” Poe said.

“All the better.”

I stationed myself just off to the side of the stairs, where I was hidden but could peek. Poe went into our room and emerged with the pink velour beanbag chair, sat in it, then looked at me. She sighed, hauled herself out and shoved it my way.

“You’re a good kid,” I whispered.

She rolled her eyes.

“So Gran does this every week?” I asked.

“Just in the last month.”

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “Hello there, Hazel,” Mom said. “Bawb. Jawn.”

Who were Bob and John? I peeked down. Holy crap! There were eight or nine people there. For hugs! From my mother!

“How much does she charge?” I whispered.

“Twenty bucks,” Poe whispered. She almost smiled.

My mother was about to make almost two hundred dollars giving hugs? Huh. Maybe she was onto something.

“You’re all very welcome here,” she said. Holy crap, there was Amy, who’d dated Sullivan Fletcher in high school! She needed a hug from my mother? And Mrs. Downs, who had the best example of resting bitch face I’d ever seen. I worried for my mother; Mrs. Downs seemed like the type to bite the head off a baby polar bear and eat it. Mr. Dobbins, the first selectman of Scupper Island for the past twenty years. A widower, if I wasn’t mistaken.

A thought occurred to me.

My mother needed a man.

“Does Gran have a special someone?” I whispered to Poe.

“A what?”

“A boyfriend?”

“Oh, Jesus, Nora. No.”

“I think we should find her one.”

Poe’s phone buzzed, and she stood up and went into our room, closing the door. I guess we weren’t going to bond over making fun of hug therapy.