Free One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest by Lori Avocato

accurate you are, Mother.”
    She shook her head—only her head shaking wasn’t like Jagger’s. Mother’s was a typical mother-type shaking that said, Stop acting like a child and tell the truth.
    Before she could continue to reprimand me—since I really wasn’t in the mood—I grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged.
    With her mouth squished against my shoulder, she reached a hand out and pressed it against my forehead as she said, “You feeling feverish?”
    I kissed her cheek and let go. “I’m just glad to see you.”
    â€œYou saw me a few days ago. You really are acting . . . Where’s Mr. Jagger?”
    â€œWhy?” I started to walk down the hallway toward the kitchen.
    â€œWhy? You have to ask?” She put the Renuzit on top of the refrigerator, as if I couldn’t reach it.
    I sat on the stool next to the breakfast counter and rested my elbows on the aquamarine Formica. Then I plopped my chin in my palms. “Yes, I have to ask.”
    Mother opened the refrigerator and started to pull out food items. I’d forgotten it was nearly suppertime. Tears welled in my eyes at the thought. Supper at my parents’ house. What a comfort. What a wonderful feeling. What the hell was I thinking?
    My recent hospitalization, or incarceration, as I liked to think of it, had affected me more than I’d thought.
    Behind the refrigerator door, Mother said, “Well, since you took off without a word, your nice Mr. Jagger called me to tell me you were okay. He said not to worry.” She set a bag of potatoes on the counter. “You should go back to your nursing.”
    Friday night. Mother’s potato pancakes. Talk about a nostalgic moment. I ignored the comment about my past career.
    â€œDon’t make Jagger sound like some kind of hero.” I leaned farther into my palms almost wishing I could get sucked into my hands and disappear.
    Mother shoved the first washed potato, skin and all, into the blender. “Shame on you, Pauline Sokol, for talking badly about Mr. Jagger.”
    Uncle Walt came in with his hat in his hands. He hurried over to me and gave me a hug.
    I inhaled Old Spice cologne and smiled.
    â€œGlad to see you back.” He turned to my mother. “Michael is parking the car in the garage.”
    She nodded at him as if she wanted to say, where else?
    â€œGlad to be back,” I mumbled. He had no idea how glad I was.
    Like some kind of octopus, Mother worked in a frenzy. She kept blending potatoes, onions and flour while she poured me a glass of milk, and I think set the table at the same time. “Here. Drink. Maybe your calcium is low.”
    Could be, since I didn’t have my calcium and magnesium while incarcerated. I wasn’t in the mood for milk—more like a Coors—but I also wasn’t in the mood to argue either. I sipped on the damn milk as my father walked in followed by Goldie and Miles.
    I jumped out of my seat and ran to hug all three of them.
    â€œPauline, you are acting very oddly,” Mother said as she added salt and pepper to her mix. “Very oddly indeed. I wouldn’t be surprised about that calcium. Miles, you’re a nurse. Does low calcium make you act cuckoo?”
    Miles chuckled. “Not sure, ma’am, but my best guessis no.” He walked toward her. “You didn’t put enough salt in.”
    Mother slapped his hand away as he lifted the Morton’s saltshaker. “Her and that job,” she mumbled.
    Daddy hugged me back. “We missed you, Pączki.”
    I was never so glad to be called a fat prune donut in my life.
    Then I looked behind Goldie.
    And hurried off to get some more Renuzit.
    Once inside the bathroom, I sat holding a new can pilfered from Mother’s private stock without spraying it. Not wanting to damage my lungs by inhaling too much of the nostalgic scent, I figured just holding it would help. What the hell was Jagger