If Martha has five lollipops and buys three times that many, how many lollipops does she have total? If Martha picked three flowers today, seven flowers yesterday, and five flowers the day before, how many flowers per day is that on average?
Min thinks it’s “so stinking cute” the way Dad worked my name into the homeschool textbooks he coauthored. “I can’t handle it!” she says as she flips through More Fun by the Numbers. “You’re keeping these, right?”
I point at the “Donate” box.
It’s about six months since he died, six months and a day since Mom and I started talking again, and almost two years since my parents refused to meet Min or attend our wedding. Show these data as a line graph.
Mom sticks her head in the door and asks, “Do you girls want cake?” She already fed us each a huge piece this morning. Before we can answer, she starts listing the things we can have with cake: coffee, tea, ginger ale. Then she disappears, probably to get us cake whether we want it or not.
“Faye is too adorable,” Min says.
When I offered to come help Mom move into her new condo, I assumed she would refuse. The last time I was in this house, she kept blowing her nose and helplessly repeating how much she loved the sinner, while Dad stayed locked in his office. But she didn’t refuse, which I guess means something. I’m not sure what. Solve for x.
I hesitated to ask Min to go with me, but so far she thinks everything is “cute” and “adorable,” as if we’re in one of her kitschy art installations.
We finish loading the truck after dinner. After Mom turns in, Min and I head up to my old room and inflate our air mattress. It’s strange to see it empty in here, without my snow globes and Narnia books. We sit on the floor and lean against the window seat where I used to sit making friendship bracelets. Min pulls out a bottle of bourbon and some plastic cups from her overnight bag and pours two shots.
The door opens, and I scoot away from Min like I’m sixteen again. I try to hide my cup.
“Remember there’s still cake if you’re hungry,” Mom says.
“We’re having cocktails, Faye. Won’t you join us?” Min holds the bottle up and waves it around, as if she and Faye are two besties having a girls’ night.
“That sounds like exactly what I need,” Mom says.
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Oh, Honey, we started drinking red wine ages ago for your father’s heart.”
“Cheers,” Min says, and she hands Mom a shot.
They clink their cups.
Min chooses this vegan place for breakfast, which I expect Mom to grumble about, but she cleans her plate and finishes my hemp waffles. Before we leave, Min jumps up to ask the manager about a frog sculpture by the register.
“Min’s a sweet girl,” Mom says. “I’m glad you brought a friend.”
“Friend. I see.”
Mom sighs. “I’m trying. Okay? I’m trying.”
I suppose she is. I don’t know why this annoys me even more.
Eventually Dad quit putting my name in his books. I’d been caught kissing the pastor’s daughter, but I don’t know if that was why. I swore to my parents that we’d only been hugging, that our camp counselor had misunderstood what she saw, and they seemed to believe me. So that might not have been it. Maybe he just thought I was too old for it, that I wouldn’t think it was cool anymore. We never discussed it. I only know one day I picked up his latest proof, and there were no Marthas converting grams of sugar to ounces, or building kites with two obtuse angles.
“Your mom was a lot more chill than I expected,” Min says as she drives us home.
“It went fine,” I say.
“From how you talk about her I thought she’d have an exorcist waiting for us or something.”
I reach into the back seat and dig around for my water bottle. That’s when I notice them—Min’s brought all of Dad’s books with us.
“Are you trying to brush up on your factor trees or something?” I ask.
Min sighs. “You can’t give those away.”
“That wasn’t your fucking decision,” I say. And at the same time, I’m so glad to see the books. My books, that I’m in.
Min sniffs, the way she does when she’s trying not to cry. My tone was harsher than I meant it to be, but I don’t apologize yet. I stare out the window, telling myself that we’ll have a real discussion about all of this later, as soon as I can figure out where to start. But where do I start? There is not enough information to solve this problem.
Katie Burgess holds a PhD in fiction from Florida State University. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, New Orleans Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, and various other places. She lives in South Carolina, where she does improv and is editor of Emrys Journal.