Page 49 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

“The office,” comes my dad’s reply.

I set off at a run, long strides easily lapping the wide kitchen and hallway decorated with framed prints of artful silhouettes of African women and men to the office at the far end of the house.

In the office that my parents share, Mom’s on the floor just inside the door, resting against the wall. Dad’s kneeling next to her, taking her pulse.

Following his lead, I crouch down too, grabbing Mom’s other hand. It’s cold — too cold. And her face is pale, with a light sheen of sweat making her forehead shine.

“What happened?” I ask, forcing my voice to be gentle instead of bellowing my fear.

“It’s nothing, hon,” my mom says, shaking her head. “I just stood up too fast is all. Got dizzy on my way back from the bathroom. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine, Mom.”

“Her pulse isn’t as strong as the doctors would like.” Dad’s speaking only to me again. He’s been doing it ever since I got back from the east coast, much to my mother’s annoyance. I wonder how he talked about these sorts of things when it was just the two of them.

“I’m right here, Harold.” She rolls her eyes, then squeezes my hand suddenly like she’s lost some of her balance from the simple eye movement. My stomach clutches.

“Yeah, but you don’t listen when I tell you to take it easy. And then stuff like this happens.” He gestures vaguely at her body slumped against the wall.

“I can’t go to the bathroom on my own?” She lifts an eyebrow and I bite back a chuckle. Yeah, she’s sick, and she’s not doing too hot at this exact moment. But she’s still my sassy, strong mama. My whole life she’s always wanted to do things her way or die trying. And it worked — that’s what really put the vineyard on the map.

But it’s not going to work now. Not when her life is literally on the line.

“Should we take her to the doctor?” I ask Dad.

“Oh good, now you’re doing it too,” Mom mutters, glaring at me.

I glare right back. “Because Dad’s right. You need to take it easier. And I know you already doing that — but you need to do it better, and more.”

“I don’t know,” Dad says in answer to my question. “Do you think you could stand, Rachelle?”

Mom’s suddenly looking everywhere but square in his eyes. “I could try.”

Dad looks at me. “Yeah, I think we should take her in.”

The string of expletives that flood from my mother’s mouth might be funny if her voice was its usual rich timbre and if me and Dad didn’t have to literally carry her to the car. After she’s settled in my dad’s Outback, I crank the seat back so she’s not sitting quite so upright.

Before closing the door on her, I give her a quick once-over. Her skin tone hasn’t gotten any better in the clear morning light. If anything, the autumn sun’s just highlighting how damn pallid she looks.

Mom grabs my hand. “I don’t want you to miss work for this old lady, honey.”

Work? My mind flies to Fine As Wine. How does she know about that? My eyes dart to Dad, wondering how I slipped up, and why they’re not freaking out about the fact that their only child and Yale graduate is working as a stripper.

Slowly, as if my brain’s been filled with glue, I realize that she’s not talking about my dancing. She’s talking about the fake online philosophy adjunct professorship I fabricated.

The fact that they haven’t caught on to my ruse tells me how worn thin my parents are. A few years back, they never would have fallen for the lie that I could pay off the vineyard’s billsandthe hospital bills on an adjunct salary.

But I guess I’ll count my blessings, such as they are.

Including the fact that my gig at the club brings in way more cash than non-tenured college teaching ever would. Even though I’d much rather be teaching philosophy right now.

“It’s fine, Mom,” I reassure her. “No class today.”

The knot in my belly tightens at the fact that once again my parents don’t question a single syllable of my thin lie. It’s a weekday. Why wouldn’t I have at least one class? I’d have to be teaching as much as humanly possible if I was really making the bank they think I am from such a job.

My parents are stressed and scared. Even though they would never admit it and try to show it as little as possible.

And that makes me worried.

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