Sweet Forty-Two

“You worry too much. Pretty sure The Young and the Restless and I will do just fine while you’re downstairs.”

I shut the door behind me and raced down the stairs and into the bakery, where I found the health inspector talking with Regan, handing him papers from his clipboard.

“Here she is now.” Regan gestured to me and the inspector turned with a smile.

“You caught me just in time, ma’am. This place is in such great condition, I was finished sooner than expected.” The averaged-height, overweight man with more hair on his arms than on his head looked pleased as he swiftly took the papers from Regan and handed them to me. “Two weeks is your intended opening date?”

“It is. Two weeks from Saturday.”

“Best of luck to you. Make sure you phone my office when you decide on a name for the place so we can fill out the certificates accordingly.”

Behind his shoulder, I watched Regan lift his fists to the air in supportive victory.

“It’s all set? I passed?” My eyes widened and I looked between the papers in my hand and the inspector’s face.

“All set. Good luck again, Miss.” He gave me a firm nod and left through the main door.

I turned around, my mouth hanging open in my excitement. “Holy shit!” I screamed, raising my arms in the air as Regan had seconds before.

“You did it!” Regan lifted me into a tight hug. Fully lifted me off the floor and spun me around. “Come upstairs with me. I have champagne.”

He set me down and grabbed my hand, racing up the stairs.

“Slow down, legs,” I teased, “some of us aren’t twenty feet tall.”

“Some of us aren’t two feet tall, either,” he shot back, reaching his apartment and opening the door.

“Gee,” I mused, “love what you’ve done with the place.” Bare walls and a single couch seemed to be accents to a music stand and his violin.

Regan pinched my cheek and stuck out his tongue. “I’m not here much, jerk.”

He dashed into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of champagne from the fridge.

“Hey,” I started, putting my hands in my back pockets, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.” My heart beat in triplet rhythm as I prepared for total emotional exposure.

“Hang on.” He reached into a cabinet and pulled out two plastic cups. “This is all I have ... sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I cleared my throat, afraid I’d lose my nerve.

Regan popped the champagne and it made me jump, feeling like I was shoved through a keyhole, riding on an umbrella with a dodo bird, circling in a pool of insecurity. Before I opened my mouth again, he looked over my shoulder.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Hall,” he said nonchalantly. “I didn’t know you were here, sorry. Want some champagne? The bakery passed the health inspection!”

Dread nearly crippled me as I turned and found my mother standing in the doorway. In our excitement, Regan and I had left the door open. She must have heard us. She was pale and looked like a foreigner, the way her eyes darted around the apartment, settling on Regan’s face for a few seconds at a time before moving on.

“Is everything okay?” Regan asked when my mother didn’t respond to his first salutation.

“I’m sorry,” she shook her head, “have we met?”

Regan slowly set down the bottle of champagne, taking noticeably quicker breaths as he stared at me.

“Mom,” I prompted without looking at Regan, “this is Regan, remember? You met him a month, or so, ago in my apartment. CJ’s cousin.”

I said as many prayers as one can say while waiting for their facade to shatter.

“CJ, the drummer boy your dad used to let play at Dunes?”

I swallowed hard, nodding at the repeat conversation we were having about how I knew Regan. About five minutes too late, recognition snapped my mother’s eyes into focus.

“Oh, shit. Regan, yes, of course. I’m sorry, honey, it’s the goddamned shock therapy messing with that pesky short term memory.” My mom giggled. A light and airy sound that was instantly soaked in the darkness of Regan’s face.

“The what?” Regan came around the counter and stood next to me in the living room. I knew he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. I wouldn’t have believed it myself.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t say shock therapy. That’s kind of tacky, isn’t it? The ECT.”

The Please be quiet and go away for five minutes vibes I was sending my mother with my bugged-out eyes were not being received by her, but they were loud and clear to Regan.

“I didn’t realize, Mrs. Ha—”

“Please, call me Amanda.” She smiled, though it was starting to fade as it became clear Regan’s lack of understanding was more like a lack of knowledge at all. “Oh ... I’m going to ... excuse me.”

My mom left as gracefully as possible, closing the door behind her.

I looked at Regan who was, as I’d expected, watching me. “Let me explain.”

His eyebrows lifted as he held out his hands. “Shock therapy, did she say? Like to her brain?”

I nodded. “Yes, for the past four weeks she’s been—”

“Four weeks?” His nostrils flared and he dropped his hands to his hips.