Page 37 of Plunge

I watch over her shoulder, impressed with the predictive text and how much she is able to do with just a few fingers. The doctor said if a stroke damaged her ability to speak, it would also impair movement on her right side, and Mom’s right handed.

But there she is, making do.

The robot voice starts to read out, “I wanted to stay home with you kids. I wanted that! We could never afford it before Dad got this job.” I roll my eyes, but the voice continues. “I never missed a single track meet and I loved that. And now, I have been reconnecting with friends.”

I remember that the old ladies of Oak Creek have been swarming around my mom, taking her for walks and to play bingo.

“I am ok,” Mom says out loud and pats my cheek.

I look into her eyes and am just not sure how to respond. I feel shitty about how little I’ve come home, about how many years I’ve been just absorbed in all my own issues. It’s like I’ve been stuck for a very long time.

I take a deep breath, and am about to tell her about the job when my phone rings. Fletcher.

“I have to take this,” I say, and she nods.

“Where the hell are you,” I spit into the phone as I walk down the hall. “You should have been here ages ago.”

He laughs and says, “Wooooo, baby. You’re never getting me out of this car. Sweet holy god, she handles nice.”

“Yes, yes, it’s a great car. Which is why I bought it. Are you nearby?”

“So about that,” he says and I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Oh no, this is not what we discussed. Get back here, Fletcher Crawford.”

“I found the cutest little inn out here near Amish country,” he says. “I haven’t slept at night since Louie was born. I’m going to pass out and get up early and I’ll have your girl back to you after breakfast.”

“Fletcher,” I hiss into the phone. “You cannot steal my car to go out…whoring.”

“Whoring?” He’s laughing again.

“Whatever it is you’re doing. Knock it off and get back here this instant.”

“Is this how you talk to Larry, Thistle? I can see why he prefers your replacement.” I hear him shut off the motor and get out of the car. I look for him out the window, hopefully, even though I’d have heard it if the car pulled up. He’s definitely not here.

“Damn it, Fletcher. I hate you.”

“Is that any way to talk to your husband?”

“Fletcher!”

“I’ll be back in the morning, Thiss. I swear it.” And he hangs up without another word.

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