Page 53 of Faking It with my Small Town Billionaire

Martha and I have both told Ellie that she has to stop calling her Mom, but our baby sister just can’t help herself.

“No. Of course not,” Ellie says, a sadness in her tone.

“Who are you?” Mom demands.

“I’m one of the nurses,” Ellie says.

Orson moves closer to me and leans in to whisper in my ear. “She doesn’t have any idea who any of you are?” he asks, looking more than perturbed.

I shake my head. “She hasn’t for a long time.”

He looks down at me sadly. “That has to be tough.”

“It was at the beginning,” I say, keeping my voice low, while Ellie continues to talk to Mom. “But we’ve all come to terms with it. Well, most of the time. Times like this, it affects us a little more—Ellie the worst. She’s the baby and was the closest to Mom.”

Mom starts to get a bit distressed, and the doctor steps in and gives her a sedative. A few seconds later, she’s sleeping again. No longer in a coma, but not with us, either.

“It has to be hard for you, too,” Orson murmurs under his breath.

“Yes.” I nod. “I suppose it is.”

The following day, the doctor is ready to discharge Mom. The carers from her nursing home arrive, and after a brief greeting to us, they ready Mom and take her away. I’d love to throw my arms around her neck and kiss her goodbye, but it would completely freak her out. It’s better for everyone this way, even if it does break our hearts.

I can, however, throw my arms around my sisters’ necks, and I do so, giving and getting huge hugs. Ellie, as usual, is emotional.

“You do this every time,” Martha laughs. “We only live fifty miles apart.”

But I sense it’s not just the goodbye that has affected her.

“It’s Mom, right?” I say.

She nods, sniffing and wiping her nose with a hankie. “Sometimes, I just miss her so much.”

“I know, darling,” I say, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. “I do, too.”

I’d be lying if I said I’m not feeling a little emotional, too. Mom raised us, loved us, advised us, wiped our tears, and comforted us. Your mom is your mom, right? She’s this constant in your life who carried you for more or less nine months and then cared for you when you couldn’t care for yourself.

For most people, their physical connection to their mother is a big deal. Something that usually only breaks in death. But this disease gives you cause to grieve while your parent is still living. When we lost Dad, I grieved deeply. Honestly, I think this is worse.

On the drive back to Willow Creek, I realize how much the situation has really affected me when I find myself crying at my memories of me and Mom. She was always so much fun, and though I inherited my wit and sense of humor from Dad, Mom always showed us a positive outlook on life and the things it throws at us.

By the time I get back to the apartment, I’m exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I would say I’m looking forward to seeing Orson, but the truth is, I think I need some time alone. I haven’t had that for nearly a week.

As it happens, Orson isn’t home, which is a relief. I can relax for a little while. Throwing my bag on the bed, I turn on the shower, undress, and climb into it, sighing with pleasure as the beads of water hit my skin.

After far too long under the thundering hot water, I finally dry off, wrap a towel around my hair, and throw on a robe. Then I head for the kitchen. There’s always wine in the fridge, and I plan to pour myself a large glass.

I’ve dropped down onto the sofa and am just sinking into the plush cushions when I hear a ping. And then another. And then another. It’s not my phone; it’s Orson’s home laptop. This is the notification sound for an email. It drives me nuts sometimes, but I’ve learned to live with it. Just not today.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Pushing myself back up off the sofa, I pad around the corner into the nook he’s commandeered as his study. The desk is immaculate, as always. Everything perfectly straight and in its place. He must have been working before he left because his laptop is still open, but then, he’s always working. I’m about to slam the noisy thing shut when a subject line catches my eye.

Thanks for last night.

I can’t help myself. The email is from someone named Charlie Wells. I open the email and read about how Charlie enjoyed the dinner they had shared together and can’t wait for them to meet up again. The end of the email makes me catch my breath.

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