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how difficult the choices were.”
    “Fine, she’s a saint, but damn it, she should have told me at some point…not kept it a secret.” I smirked. “But then, Sis always has cared more about what other people think than the reality of her life.”
    Cynthia said, “ You’re accepting your theory as reality, Brandy. I admit it’s credible, but it’s just a theory, based on circumstantial evidence. You’ll never know until you talk it out with your mother.”
    “Which one?”
    “Peggy Sue.”
    “Then you do think she’s my mother!”
    We sat in silence for a few moments; then Cynthia—who had every right to be exasperated with me—said, “I won’t tell you what to do, Brandy…but if and when you decide to discuss this with your sister, pick a time that you and Peggy Sue can be alone and you can hear her side of the story. Remember, if you’re right about this…she’s been suffering, too.” The therapist stood. “I’m sorry, we have to end this now….”
    “Jeez, and it was just getting really fun.”
    Back in the reception room, which was empty now due to the approaching lunch hour, I sat and waited for Mother. I could hear her musical laughter, and the responding laughter from her male psychiatrist, coming from behind the nearest door of the opposite wing. After I cooled my heels for a few more minutes, Mother exited the office, smiling broadly.
    “Good news,” she exclaimed the moment she’d reached me. “The doctor said that I am no longer bipolar!”
    “Really?” I said, amazed, getting to my feet. Was it possible bipolar disorder could leave as quickly as it had come on? That suddenly, one day, a person would wake up and be cured, or anyway in remission?
    In Mother’s case, I’d have to see some hard evidence.
    “Oh, my, yes,” Mother rattled on. “And to think, all these years I’ve been misdiagnosed.” Then she crowed in triumph: “I’m actually schizo-affective!”
    I raised my eyebrows, “And that’s better, how?”
    Mother frowned. “Well, doesn’t that sound more like me?”
    I grunted in agreement. Mother certainly was one effective schizoid.
    “Remember when we did our musical version of Three Faces of Eve at the Playhouse? Now we know why I felt so connected to that role…or is it roles?”
    I couldn’t answer her—I was flashing back to the terror of Mother singing all three parts in the same song, slamming one different hat on after another, like an even more manic Jimmy Durante, to help the audience keep track of the various Eves.
    “Schizophrenia isn’t multiple personalities, Mother. Your one personality is quite enough.” I handed Mother her raccoon coat. “Do you and your doctor have to have so much fun?”
    Mother appraised me with her eyebrows raised above the magnified eyes behind her oversize thick glasses. “I can see that you’re still Little Miss Grumpy Pants. Well, my dear, I don’t have to be subjected to your ever-darkening storm clouds cluttering up my perfect blue sky. You can drive me straight back to the house!”
    “I thought we were going to see Mr. Yeager,” I protested. “To take him the information we found on the internet about his Tarzan book.”
    ( And get the money from Chaz that her boyfriend stole.)
    Mother harrumphed. “You can go by yourself, Grouchy…I’m tired of you raining on my parade!”
    Even though Mother’s parade was one tuba player, a tractor pulling a hayrack, and a maniacal clown bringing up the rear, I didn’t relish driving all the way across town to drop her off.
    I gave Mother a smile. “Is this better? I’ve turned my frown upside down, just for you.”
    Mother’s eyes narrowed to near-normal (magnified) size, and she said skeptically, “It looks a trifle…forced.”
    I smiled wider—dangerously wide for a mental health facility, as certainly somewhere around here a closet filled with coats that buttoned in back were at the ready. “How’s this? ”
    “All right, all right, please remove that