Free Random Acts of Love (Random #5) by Julia Kent

heart condition, Joseph Herbert Ross! I was there the day they cut you out of my body, blue as could be, and resuscitated you in the surgery at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. I was there when the doctor came in and told me you’d survived, but you would need life-saving open heart surgery to save you. I was there when some doctor who had to pretend he was God for hours and hours, cutting and sewing your little veins and arteries the size of sewing thread. I was there when the pediatric cardiologist explained more than I ever needed to know about infant heart conditions, so don’t you dare say—” 
    “I had a heart condition, Mom. Had . I don’t have one now.” I pulled my shirt up and exposed the still-distinct scar tissue. My finger slid down the long, ragged white line. “Had. It’s done. You’ve been treating me like I’m a fragile infant for twenty-four years.”
    “Because you are!”
    “Only in your head. Not in reality.”
    “And you need a good woman to make everything better,” she added, as if that were part of this conversation. The non-sequitur threw me off. Damn it. It shouldn’t. A good lawyer stays in the moment at all times, ready for whatever logic—good, bad, or nonexistent—is thrown their way.
    “What the fuck does a woman have to do with my heart condition?” 
    “See! You admit it. You have one.”
    “I hate you.”
    She didn’t even react. “You always say that when I’m right.”
    “No. I say it when I hate you.”
    She stood on tiptoes and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll start asking my friends at the celiac disease fundraiser if they have any daughters in their twenties we can match with you.”
    “What? Now you’re a matchmaker? And what—wait—celiac disease? You have celiac disease now?” Mom self diagnosed herself with everything. Everything except for obsessive compulsive disorder. That, she insisted, she most certainly did not have. She just noticed more than other people. Was more observant, and therefore needed a higher level of attention to detail in her life.
    “I don’t have celiac, although since I stopped eating gluten my stools have really improved.”
    “Along with your hymen.” At what point did the conversation go from my alleged heart condition to mom’s shit?
    Her face tightened. “Stop joking about my vagina. It’s misogynistic.”
    “I see. I’m sexist for making fun of your retro, anti-feminist surgery.”
    Her hand went to her heart. “Anti-feminist? Me! I’m not anti-feminist. I marched at the ’89 pro-choice rally in D.C. You can’t call me anti-feminist.”
    “You got surgery that reconstructs a symbol of oppression for women throughout millennia, a tiny membrane that represents a woman’s purity and, therefore, value in a society and you claim it’s not anti-feminist?” I didn’t give a shit about this topic, but it was fun putting her in the hot seat.
    “I did it for fun.”
    “Fun? Oh. Right. Most moms have wine night but my mother goes to the gynecologist and spreads her legs for fun.”
    Paul happened to pick that exact moment to approach us with a question. His face was a mask of horror. Poor guy. Ten years of working for Mom and Dad should have made him hardier, though.
    “Yes?” Mom snapped.
    “Uh, all the joint compound on the market has gluten in it.”
    “WHAT? I can’t have that in my bathroom, inhaling the fumes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Keep trying.” 
    “Mom, I thought gluten was only a problem if you ate it.”
    “No—any contact with the body,” she said with a sniff, as if there were gluten right now somewhere in the room. “I have carefully combed through all my cosmetics, hair supplies—even the lube we use for sex is gluten free now.”
    Paul turned a sickly shade of green.
    “Were you this careful with your surgery?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Are your stitches gluten free? The ones the surgeon put in you?”
    Her eyes flew wide open and she grasped my arm as if she were