Free Cures for Heartbreak by Margo Rabb

survivors—who’d gone over the edge. The stories made me fear for my mother’s life; itseemed suspended by a single thread. I couldn’t make sense of her emotions: we had our nights out, the ballet, but then there were those hours she spent in bed, sleeping off an undefined illness. And there were the fights with my father, like sudden explosions, and her Wednesday-night trips to Dr. Mallik, her therapist, whom Fanny had recommended. Fanny shared many of my mother’s quirks: the tote bags loaded with provisions, the way they kept track of Lucy and me, wanting intricate details of our plans at all times, as if once they lost track of us for a minute, they’d lose us forever. And the way, when they said good night to us, they told us they loved us as if they doubted that we’d still be there in the morning.
    Our hugs and food and declarations of love—I knew how much these gestures meant to my mother, and this knowledge gave me an odd kind of power: I knew that she’d never had this guaranteed love with anyone before, that her happiness seemed inextricably entwined with mine. But I depended on her too; I lived for her hugs, her food, and I told her I loved her with her same intensity, as if to say, You have to live—if for nothing else, then for me.
    My mother’s attention to me, though, seemed to lag after the first few days in Maplewood. In the mornings Fanny deposited me and Lucy at ballet class, while my mother slept in; I didn’t see her until dinner. She seemed quiet and distant then, but peaceful, even satisfied.
    â€œWhat’d you do all day?” I’d ask her at dinner.
    â€œOh, nothing—sit by the lake. Relax. Read some.”
    Fanny had given her a whole pile of books, including Fear of Flying, Heartburn, and The Women’s Room ; my mother pressed wildflowers between the pages. She was definitely enjoying life in this town, and I was too—the clean white sidewalks of Main Street, the wide, airy aisles of Stop & Shop, nights in bed beside Lucy, reading our Sweet Valley High books out loud. Even ballet was better than I’d expected. Lucy did wear toe shoes, but she kept tripping over them, and the instructor, Jolée, didn’t even notice me twirling off count.
    â€œThink how good we’d be if we danced together all the time,” Lucy said, nearly falling over from her arabesque. “We’d be like Baryshnikov and Gelsey Kirkland. Torvill and Dean without ice.”
    In Jolée’s class we’d become a regular pair: each day, for our improvisation, we invented a two-minute ballet and performed it as a couple. It didn’t matter what we looked like; Jolée simply crooned, “Feel the mooovement, become the mooovement, ” and nodded in praise.
    Out of the whole class, only one girl had mooovements that seemed on target, even beautiful, and Lucy and I often stopped to gape at her with envy. She was seventeen, with black hair that swept to her hips, and breasts that made ours seem like walnuts. Jolée adored her. It wasn’t until late in the week that I found out her name: Greta, just like my mother’s.
    â€œIsn’t that weird?” I said to my mother at dinner that night. “Isn’t that the craziest coincidence? Another Greta. I never met anyone else with your name.”
    My mother shrugged; she didn’t seem fazed or surprised, but Fanny kept smirking at me and then glanced at my mother and said, “Honey, it’s not a coincidence—Greta’s father was your mother’s old boyfriend. He’s a widower now.”
    I gazed at my mother. Sometimes she would tell me about the men she’d gone out with before she met my father: Moshe the Israeli; Charlie the Navy sailor, whose whole crew stood up when she entered the room; Harry the Californian, with the red convertible. I always felt envious and proud that my mother had had all these boyfriends, that she was so