had, certainly not making new memories, as was the original proviso, and absolutely not bonding.
I stood up. “Ma,” I said, “why don’t we go shopping for some linens. And some towels. I could probably use some dishes, too. A few cups and saucers would be good. Fiona likes tea.”
“Really? You want to do that? With me?”
“I do,” I said. “It’s time I got a bit more comfortable here.”
“Oh, Michael, I’d love that.”
If I’d learned anything, it was that I wasn’t going anywhere soon, and wasn’t going anywhere fast. I didn’t think a trip to Sears would fix four decades of weirdness with my mother, nor stop me from looking over my shoulder for the people who burned me, but for one day, it might just make someone happy and that, well, that wasn’t something I did every day, as a spy or as a son.
We walked out of the office without another word to Dr. Miyazawa, who was nonetheless spouting some theory about re-creating the placenta through retail therapy being a false hope. Outside, the air was warm and you could smell the ocean blowing in on the wind.
And a black SUV, the windows tinted, the doors clearly armored, pulled slowly out of a parking space next to my Charger and inched out into the midafternoon traffic. On my windshield was an envelope.
“Is that a ticket?” my mother asked.
“Yes,” I said. I opened the envelope and looked inside. There was a slip of paper with a single sentence written on it in thick black marker. Don’t get too comfortable.
