Page 74 of The Cost of Forgetting You

The low hum of conversation coming from the television accompanies Dad’s muffled snores as the only sounds in the house. The sun sits low in the west field, casting a warm glow over Truett’s land and spilling onto the hardwood floors through the window. There’s still an hour or so till it sets completely, but already there are hints of pink and purple streaking the sky. It’s always been my favorite part of summer, that the days seem so endless. So full of promise.

My phone buzzes on the countertop, dragging my attention away from the fields. A text from Mom pops up beneath a notification that I’ve missed a call from her. I squint, not entirely believing my eyes. Normally her silent treatments last a lot longer than two days. One time, after I chose a business degree instead of attending the flight attendant program for Delta Airlines that she suggested, she made it a whole three weeks. It would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so depressing.

Mom

Call me ASAP. I’m at the hospital.

Panic lances through me. My heart seizes. I glance over my shoulder at Dad, reassuring myself he’s actually asleep, then step out onto the porch, careful to avoid the tattletale floorboard by the door.

Before the first ring has finished, Mom answers, breathless, “Oh, thank God.”

“What’s going on?” I grip the wooden railing to hold myself steady. Breaths come in thin, rapid puffs. “Are you okay?”

“I fell.” Her voice warbles. “I’m waiting on the X-rays now, but the doctor said it looks like I broke it.”

“Broke what?” My mind goes straight to her hips. Though I know she’s only in her forties, it just goes hand in hand. Parents falling equals hips breaking. Next stop, motorized chair lift on the stairs.

“My ankle!” she wails. “I don’t know why I ever let Debbie talk me into that damn hike. I have not been athletic my entire life. Why on earth would I start now?”

“Your… ankle?”

“Yes, Delilah. My ankle. I fell down a slick spot and twisted it something awful, and now it’s swollen to the size of a grapefruit. I swear. I’ll text you a picture.”

“You don’t have to—” I start, but my phone is already buzzing. Sure enough, her ankle is a gnarly shade of purple and a few sizes too big. But it’s an ankle. My pulse stalls. Heat fills my cheeks. I pull in a deep breath and blow it out. “Mom, I was worried something terrible happened to you.”

For a beat too long, the only sound is a distant monitor beeping and the low hum of chatter in what I assume is the emergency department.

Then, “Do you remember when you broke your wrist?”

I bite my lip, letting a sigh flow through the gap. “Yes.”

“And how did it feel, huh? I seem to remember you were in a terrible amount of pain.”

I wince, pressing the pad of my thumb to my throbbing temple. “I get what you’re saying, but typically when someone says to call them ASAP because they’re at the hospital, there’s been a heart attack or a car accident or…”

“Or a dementia diagnosis?” Her tone is clipped. Knowing. We’ve circled right back to our conversation two days ago, and we’re no closer to common ground. “How come when it concerns Henry, it’s an emergency, but my pain isn’t good enough for you to bother with?”

“I didn’t say that at all.”

She scoffs. “For your information, they’re talking about surgery options. This type of break could put me in a boot for over a month.”

I flop onto the porch swing. The chain groans under my weight. I want to echo the sound, but I bite the inside of my cheek hard, tamping down the temptation. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I hate that this happened to you.”

A low male voice calls her name distantly, and then the sound of a hand muffling the speaker scrapes my ears. I empty my lungs. I try so hard to push the guilt out with it, but it simmers in my stomach, unwilling to be expelled.

She releases the speaker, and the sound of her world comes rushing in. “How soon can you be here?”

My racing thoughts falter, then freeze in place. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll need your help post-surgery.”

“So you are having surgery?”

She goes on like I haven’t spoken. “If I buy you a flight, can you be here Monday morning? You can use my car while you’re here so you don’t have to drive all that way. Unless you’d like to drive. This could be a good time to transition care for your dad to something more permanent…”

“Mom, what are you talking about?” I lurch forward, elbows stabbing into my knees, and bury my head in my hands. “There’s no transitioning of care. I’m the permanent care. And I can’t just up and leave. When is your surgery? How long will you need me?”

“You up and left for him.”

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