Page 31 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“Most likely an anxiety attack,” he says. “Has anything like this ever happened before?”

I study Mom, completely reclined, and she blinks a few times, tears rolling sideways toward her temples. I answer for her. “I don’t think so. My brother died in February so… It’s…”

The doctor nods sympathetically and writes something on a prescription pad before typing on a computer in the corner of the room. “I’m prescribing her some antianxiety medication, only a few tablets, but I’m also going to make a referral note about this for her primary care physician.” He addresses my mom then. “It’s helpful to talk to someone. Anxiety doesn’t always go away on its own. Sometimes when family trauma happens, a mixture of counseling and medication is the best solution.”

She closes her eyes, and I hang my head.

Something like shame washes over me. Each of us, Mom, Dad, and me, we’re shadows of the people we used to be. We’re trying not to disappear, and it’s impossible to truly confront what happened. Like if we don’t admit it, it didn’t happen. At least, that’s what it’s like for me.

When the doctor leaves, I pull out my cell phone and give my dad a call again. He doesn’t answer again, so I call his office and talk to his secretary.

“He’s in a meeting right now,” she says.

“Tell him it’s an emergency.”

“An emergency?” Her voice rises, and I assume she’s thinking of the emergency we had two months ago.

“Yeah, my mom.”

“Okay, hold on.”

The line quiets until my father picks up a minute later. “Cassandra, what is it?”

“Mom’s in the hospital,” I say. “We were at the grocery store, and she had a panic attack.”

“Jesus Christ.”

When he doesn’t offer anything else, I ask him, “Can you come home?”

“I’m in the middle of a meeting with the CFO.”

I huff. “She’s in the hospital, Dad.”

“It was a panic attack. People have those all the time. Take her home and put her to bed.”

“Like I’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks?”

“Yeah.”

When I grumble, he sighs like this is all so difficult for him.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“No.” I don’t give him the opportunity to hang up on me. I instead press the red button before he can. I text Aunt Joanie to tell her, and she says she’ll be over after work, but that doesn’t help me with getting to my work on time.

Gary eyes me when I finally run into Sassie’s, and I hold up my hand, but it doesn’t stop him. “You know I’m letting a lot of things slide with you, but you’re half an hour late.”

“I know. There was nothing I could do about it.”

He folds his arms and gives me a disappointed-parent look. “I’m going to have to write you up for this. You’re on thin ice here, Cass.”

I stuff my purse into one of the cubbyholes in the corner and steal a pen from the jar, ignoring him. If I worried about every write-up from Gary at Sassie’s Lassies, I’d be lying next to my mother in bed right now. This job is the least of my worries.

After cleanup and shutdown, it’s almost midnight by the time I clock out, but I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to deal with my parents, with my mom on whatever pill makes her like a zombie. Or wondering what time my father will be home or if he’ll be drinking. It’s all too hard. People said it would eventually get easier. But when does eventually start?

In the empty parking lot outside, I sprawl back on the hood of my car. It’s cool out, and I pull my jacket up around my neck as I open the contacts on my phone to call Vince.

We usually only text, and I’m dazed by his gravelly, bedroom voice saying my name. “Cass?”

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