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“Ah, bullshit. You totally could. It just wouldn’t be as much fun.” Colleen slows to a crawl. “Heads up,” she says. “I think we’ve reached our destination.”

The Sentra turns into a big parking lot beside a Target store. Shoppers with red carts cross in front of us.

“There’s some smart gals,” Colleen says. “You never know when you’re going to need a hundred rolls of toilet paper.”

When the Sentra oozes all the way to the farthest corner of the lot, we slide in between two SUVs.

“I’ll bet she works here,” Colleen says. “They always want their minimum-wage lackeys to leave the primo spaces for the customers.”

I tell her, “I don’t get it. Mom and Dad were married. She should have gotten half of everything.”

Colleen opens her door. “C’mon, Hopalong. This crafty varmint’s on the move.”

My mother walks as slowly as she drives. She clutches her purse with both hands and stays as close to the wall as she can.

We follow her through the big electric doors, past a bored-looking guard wearing what looks like his big brother’s uniform. Then she disappears through a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
.

“What now?” I ask.

“We wait. In the meantime, we pretend to shop. Try and fit in, okay? Walk behind me like all the other guys and look like your balls are in a vise.”

Nobody looks very happy. Most of the women have three or four kids grabbing at anything, and Dad’s a human calculator wondering what this excursion is going to cost. Spacey-looking tweens text each other as fast as they can.

Colleen links her arm through mine and leads me to a wall of socks, where she pretends to be enthralled with some Hello Kitty knee-highs.

Then she stops abruptly. “Whoa. Look who’s here.”

It’s my mother, in a one-size-fits-none vest. Her brown pants are loose. Black, soft-looking shoes, run down a little like she’s heavier on one side. Pale.

“Was she always like that?” Colleen asks.

“Like what?”

“Invisible.”

I tell Colleen, “Not to me. We’d go places together. Grandma, too.”

“Old laugh-a-minute Granny.” She pulls me behind a rack of dresses with flowers all over them. “What’d your dad do, anyway?”

“Remember when we went to Caltech to see Marcie’s movie? I showed you the library where Dad worked.”

“I thought you guys were rich.”

“Grandma is.”

“And as far as the C.P. goes, you were pretty much screwed from day one, right?”

“If you want to use abstruse medical terminology, yes.”

She leans in and kisses me. “I fuckin’ love you, Ben. You just crack me up.”

My mother disappears through the wide doors marked
CHANGING ROOMS
. But only for a few seconds. Then she’s back, pushing a cart loaded with all kinds of clothes. Loaded to overflowing. She has to lean to push it, like the coal miners in
How Green Was My Valley.
Or the seven dwarfs in their diamond mine.

We watch her trudge, take a blue dress off the top of the pile, look at the label, then put it back on a rack with a dozen others just like it. She moves like she’s underwater.

Colleen says, “It looks like Count Dracula’s been stopping by her cottage for snacks. Either that or she’s loaded.”

I don’t mean to, but I take a step back. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Talk to her. The shock might start her heart.”

“What do I say?”

“How about, ‘Remember when you dropped me off at Grandma’s? Well, I’m still waiting for you to pick me up, and, boy, am I thirsty’?”

“I’m serious, Colleen.”

“Okay, okay. Just walk over there and say, ‘I think you’re my mom. Do you remember me? I’m Ben.’”

I retreat some more. “I can’t.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“NO!”

I’ve got my hand around her wrist and she uncurls my fingers one by one. “Relax. You just try on one of these whimsical prints with a cinch waist and side pockets.”

I watch her walk away. I step in between the long dresses, the ones with the flowers. But they smell like chemicals. Like I’m in a chemical jungle.

Colleen waits until my mother figures out that the white blouse in the cart belongs with the other white blouses. Then Colleen says something. Delia’s hands (I can’t totally think of her as my mother, so I default to what Grandma calls her) reach for each other. Then they disappear into the sleeves of her blouse. But I can see them moving in there. Turning and twisting. Writhing.

Colleen waves me over. Another deep breath, another big
whoosh,
and I totter toward them.

She doesn’t look up, but one hand comes out tentatively. “Benjamin,” she whispers. “What a coincidence.”

“Yeah,” I croak. “Isn’t it?”

She looks at Colleen. “What brings you to Azusa?”

“Oh, we were just driving around.”

She takes her hand back. Her limp, damp hand. “It’s a lovely place to live.”

Colleen nods. “It looks nice.”

Her face closes down a little. “I need to get back to work. They’re always watching. And there’s always something to do. I have to keep my area shoppable. I have to zone the junior knits.” She points. “And this isn’t the only cart I have to attend to.”

Colleen smiles reassuringly. “Listen. Do you get a break anytime soon? I could use some caffeine. Any chance of sitting down somewhere?”

My mother checks her watch, a Timex with a cracked leather band. “Just let me get someone to keep an eye on my section.”

While she’s gone, Colleen says, “So far, so good, right?”

“Here are my choices: I can either faint or throw up.”

“Door number one. That way I can give you mouth-to-mouth. No way is that going to happen if you hurl.”

We follow Delia toward the cash registers. Past those, I can see a yellow-and-blue room with tables. Grandma would need more than one digestive enzyme to eat here.

My mother’s pants are a little off-kilter. Her vest slants the other way. Her too-big brown socks sag a little.

“What would you kids like?” she asks, sounding like she’s memorized the line.

Colleen helps me out. “We’ll have what you’re having.”

Delia turns and looks at us slyly. “It’s probably not good for us, but it’s delicious.”

I reach for one of the twenty-dollar bills Grandma gives me. “Let me pay, okay?”

She waves it away, “Oh, that’s not necessary, Benjamin.”

“I know, but I’d like to.”

She lets me lay it across her open hand. “Well, all right. I do get the employee discount.”

The girl behind the counter — stud in her nose, blue hair — looks at Colleen and gives up the slightest nod.

My mother says, “You kids should sit down. I can manage.”

Colleen and I find a table without too much mustard on it. I tell her, “I just can’t believe that’s actually my mother.”

“We’re reading this play in Alternative School where this Oedipus guy sleeps with his mom. So what you are going through here is nothin’.”

“Have I told you lately what a great consolation you are in these stressful times?”

She leans into me, flicks her tongue in my ear. “Keep talkin’ like that, big boy, and you might get lucky tonight.” Then she nudges me. “Uh-oh. Despite what she said, I don’t think Mom’s coping all that well.”

I hurry over. Three corn dogs and three cups of 7-Up are too much for one tray.

I get another one and manage to off-load all the drinks. “Now we’ve each got one, okay?”

Relief just makes her face light up. I follow her to the table. Colleen, God bless her, stands up and helps with the flimsy red plates, the ketchup and mustard, the plastic knives and forks.

Delia settles in, worries her napkin till it opens and floats onto her lap. And immediately slips off. She reaches for it, but it’s too far away. I try, but it’s on my left, and that arm is, well, that arm. Colleen simply hands her another one.

My mother looks at me. Actually, at my partly shriveled arm. “Has that been difficult for you, Benjamin?”

“I manage.”

“You seem quite capable.”

“He’s more than capable,” Colleen says, with a leer.

Delia acts like she’s only heard the content, not the tone. “Well, that’s such good news,” she says. “I’m glad.”

Then she gives all her attention to her corn dog — holding it down with a fork, slowly withdrawing the stick, cutting it into six bite-size pieces.

“These are kosher dogs,” she says, “so we don’t have to worry about a pig’s anus in our lunch.”

Colleen pushes her plate away and reaches for the 7-Up.

I take a deep breath. “So, where were you before you moved to Azusa?”

She chews a long time before she answers, and while she’s chewing, I wonder if she’ll ask how I know she lived somewhere else. If she asks how I know, what do I say? But not much registers with my mother except the basics.

“Seattle,” she says. “I was in Seattle.”

“No way,” Colleen blurts. “Seattle is the fucking suicide capital of the world.”

“It could get gloomy,” Delia says. “Perhaps that’s why my doctor says I needed sunshine. Now I have a comfortable chair on my front porch, and I sit out there all the time.”

My corn dog bulges in the middle like a python who’s just had his supper.

I manage to ask, “What did you do up in Washington?”

“Oh, I worked.”

I really want to know if she left California because I was so much trouble. But I can’t ask. Not today, anyway. Not with her hunched over that awful corn dog.

“Do you like the movies?” Colleen asks. “Ben loves the movies.”

She pauses and looks up. Her eyes are just like mine — light blue and deepset. God, she’s my mother for sure. “I used to,” she says, “but I haven’t been in years.”

I ask, “What kind did you like?”

She moves her fork like a tiny baton. “Where people sang and danced in the streets or around a fountain.”

Colleen puts one arm around my waist and pulls me toward her. It’s such a cool thing for her to do. I can feel her through our clothes: we’re in this together. “This looks like a pretty nice place to work,” she says. “Do you like it?”

Her shoulders sag some more. “I’m solely responsible for at least a thousand square yards of ladies’ wear.” She ticks off brands on one hand. “Liz Lange, Xhilaration, Mossimo, Merona Slimming Solutions. And then there are the UPC numbers.”

Thinking about it seems to wear her out. She closes her eyes. Colleen and I look at each other: Did my mother nod out over a corn dog?

Just then somebody else in a Target vest stops, touches Delia on the shoulder, and says, “Who are your friends, honey?”

She’s a big, strong woman who radiates energy. She reminds me of Queen Latifah (real name Dana Elaine Owens), who was good in
Chicago
and just won my heart in a little movie called
Last Holiday.

My mother actually wakes up a little. “Oh, Monique. This is Ben. He’s all grown up.”

I get to my feet. “We haven’t seen each other in a while.” I put one hand on Colleen’s shoulder and introduce her.

“That’s a pretty blouse,” Monique says. “You didn’t buy that here.”

“Fell off the back of a truck headed for New York.”

Monique smiles. “Well, I should be getting back. Guess who has to zone men’s dress pants?”

Delia checks her watch. She puts both hands flat on the table and is about to push herself to her feet when Colleen says, “Look at this.” She grabs my good hand and sets it beside my mother’s. They actually are alike.

Then she’s on her feet. “Really. I can’t be late.”

Colleen shoos her. “You go. We’ll clean up here.”

Delia puts both hands deep into the pockets of her smock: no hugging today. “Well, thank you for coming. I really enjoyed myself.”

We watch her walk away. Hurry, really. Or scurry. I take a deep breath and sit down. Colleen thumps the table with one fist. “I think we made some progress today, doctor.”

“It’s like she doesn’t get it. That it’s been twelve years. That I’m her kid. Is she ever going to ask about Grandma?”

“Speaking of Ms. Congeniality, when are you going to tell her?”

I shake my head. “That I found my mom? I don’t know.”

“But you will, right? You have to.”

“Eventually.”

Colleen digs for her keys, points to the exit. I take her hand, and she leads me away. I’m almost as comatose as my mother.

“Unbelievable,” I say once we’ve cleared the door and are outside again.

“Yeah,” she says. “Not like the movies, where Mommy says she’s sorry and then the violin section kicks in.”

“She hasn’t seen her kid for twelve years, he shows up out of nowhere, and she says, ‘What a coincidence.’”

“Get in the car, honey. Stop thinking for two minutes.”

“She can’t be like this all the time, can she?”

“We’ll find out, okay? We’ll come back. She could be part of a shadowy netherworld of Zombie Moms, at which point we’ll have to get out the flamethrower.”

I fall into the seat. Colleen reaches across and fastens my seat belt. She kisses me and puts her warm cheek against mine. “It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’re kind of in shock — that’s all. Anybody would be.”

As Colleen drives, I keep thinking: That’s
my mother?
That’s
the person I thought about and worried about and, when I was little, anyway, cried myself to sleep over? Holy shit!

“You okay, sport?”

“I don’t know.”

“Talk to me. We meet this genie, okay? And we each get three wishes. You know what I’d wish for? Huge boobs. Then you’d never ever want any girl but me. Huge boobs and a movie theater. What would you wish for?” She leans and pokes me with an elbow. “C’mon. What would you wish for?”

“I know you’re trying to distract me. Thanks, but I’m okay.”

“Bullshit. I’m really interested. What would you want if you could —?”

“Okay, okay. Fine. Two good arms and legs and a car, okay? That’s all. I’d just like to be a regular kid with a car.”

Colleen swallows hard. “Well, fuck. Now I’m going to cry.”

“I didn’t cry back there.”

“You totally did. People were staring at you. They were taking pictures. You’ll be on YouTube tomorrow —
Former Orphan Outdoes Niagara.
”

“Will you just stop?”