Page 3 of Their Stormy Reunion

Mom had to use two hands to pick up her mug. Her swollen, knotted knuckles from the rheumatoid arthritis looked crippling, but I knew her, she was never going to complain. Never going to ask for help. But the fact that she let me move back in told me just how bad things had gotten.

“How’s Dad?”

“I think today will be a good day,” she murmured. “He wants to get out of bed.”

Shit, didn’t that just say it all?

“What are the doctors saying?”

“It’s complicated.” Her voice was so low it was almost lost under the hum of the refrigerator. She stared down into her coffee like she would find answers to my question.

I held in a sigh of frustration. For the last few years they’d tolerated my holiday and birthday calls. They never called me or asked questions about my life, but they allowed me to wish them well. They would always tell me what was going on in Jasper Creek and they never failed to tell me something about Michael Rankin. That would be the point I’d shut down, guarding the fragile pieces of my heart.

Three weeks ago in February, on Dad’s birthday, the call was different. This time it was just him on the line, and he was whispering.

“Your mother needs you.” His voice was labored and out of breath..

My heart had jumped to my throat. “What’s wrong with Mom?”

“She’s trying to take care of me all on her own. She won’t allow nurses in, and it’s too much for her. It’s time you came home.” Now he sounded like the father I’d grown up with.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“The cancer’s come back. Worse this time. Your mom’s arthritis and constitution isn’t up to handling this on her own, but she refuses to see it. You owe it to us to help out.”

My hand trembled as I held my phone. “Dad, how sick are you?”

“I’m going to die,” he said simply. “When can you be here?”

The air rushed out of my lungs. “I-I’ll need to put my condo on the market and rearrange some things with my company. A month?”

“Not soon enough,” he snapped. “You owe your mother your help.”

He hung up and I cried for the first time in nine years.

“How is it complicated?” I probed. I kept my tone even, like I did when my software developers told me they were going to come in late on a deadline. The trick was to get them to explain things in their own way, then gently guide them toward a workable solution.

“There are too many doctors. They say different things.” Her response was quiet and she still avoided my gaze.

I turned to the refrigerator, where she always kept the bread. There was none. As a matter of fact, the contents of the fridge were dismal. I winced as I looked closer. I saw condiments and some leftovers that looked like they were from last week, at best. I turned back to my coffee on the counter.

“I haven’t had time to go shopping,” my mom snapped. It was the first time she looked at me. She looked angry.

Okay. Nothing new there.

“Would you like me to go to the store?”

“I’m more than capable of taking care of my own home. Your father should have never asked you to come.”

I took one of three overripe bananas from the fruit bowl and started to peel it. At least it was something.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Mom was working herself up into a good-sized mad.

“Is there anything I can say to make you less angry?”

Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

Good to see all those management training classes had taught me something.