Chapter Thirty-Two
Luke
Sophie is so engrossed in her laptop she doesn’t see us coming until we’re two feet away, staring at her from the other side of a plastic table covered in fitness magazines.
“Luke?” She snaps her MacBook shut and drops it on an empty seat beside her before scrambling to her feet. “How—”
“How’d I find you?” I release Cassidy’s hand and shove both of mine in my pockets. “Pretty easy once Mrs. Brothers told me where you were.”
She winces and tries to cover it by brushing her dark hair behind her ear. We stare at each other for a few seconds before she gestures to the seats beside her.
I’m not all that interested in sitting. “What‘s going on? Where are the girls? Did you leave me a voicemail about this that I missed?”
“The girls are at school, Luke. It’s a weekday.” Sophie’s gaze floats to my right. “Hello.”
I gesture with my head. “This is Cassidy. Cass, this is my sister Sophie. Keeper of family secrets, apparently.”
Sophie’s polite smile for Cass melts off her face as she turns to glare at me. “You really want to do this here?”
“Where better than the recovery wing?”
A man across the room peers up from his phone at the volume of my voice. I can’t seem to give a shit. My blood has been replaced with simmering lava.
An entire emergency procedure, even, and no one cared to tell me. Neither Sophie nor Mom thought it necessary to fill me in. It’s as if I have no stake in this family. Even Mrs. Brothers knew, for chrissake.
I shove down a surge of worry. Cass’s fingers land on the back of my arm. The gentle touch soothes me for a split second, until Sophie talks again.
“Mom’s already out! No biggie!” Sophie fakes lightness about as well as I do. Family traits. “We’re waiting for the doctors to tell us more. You don’t have to get so worked up.”
“Why is she here in the first place?”
“Mom’s liver scan a few weeks back…didn’t go well.” Sophie hugs her chest. Her hair is half falling out of its ponytail, and the bags beneath her eyes are visible in the harsh lighting of the room. She’s in scrub bottoms, even though she’s not working.
Fuck if that doesn’t make it worse, the guilt even more acidic in my throat. Now I’m worried and an asshole for being mad at her.
“They wanted to do a more thorough exploration. They were able to schedule this procedure quickly, but they warned they wouldn’t be sure of the scope of it until they got in there. They also uh—”
Her words fall away as her gaze darts to Cassidy and then to the floor.
I turn to Cass and cup her elbow. “Would you mind waiting here for a minute? My sister and I are going to step into the hall. If the doctor comes…” I swallow thickly.
Cass nods. “Of course. I’ll come get you right away.”
The door separating the lobby from the hall shuts behind my sister’s back.
I thought the Charlotte airport smelled like a hospital. I was wrong. I’d forgotten the sharp and unsettling scent of this place. And the sterility and hard edges, dressed up in pinks and blues.
“What else?” I press.
Sophie leans against the wall beside the door. “Last week she had alcohol poisoning. She had to get her stomach pumped. It was rough. She swore up and down she didn’t drink enough to warrant that, and I wasn’t watching her closely—Ava had ballet—and by the time I got home… Anyway, we had a huge fight the next day. And a few fights since. I barely convinced her to go through with the procedure.” She blinks fast, but there’s no moisture in her eyes. Just exhaustion.
She’s been here fighting with Mom while I was—
I swallow down a surge of bile. I was having the best night of my life, and Sophie was here, begging Mom to take care of herself. My sister is always doing the job of two people, but usually I’m not galivanting around while it happens.
Self-loathing overtakes me, a living and breathing monster possessing my body.
I’ve been unforgivably selfish.
“They wanted to do a CT to check her liver function. It was supposed to be outpatient, but then they called me to come in and talk.” She puts on her nurse voice. “With diabetes, they always want quick results on these things. So many variables at play. So that’s why we’re here.”
Dread settles in my gut. Returns to its home base. My voice is hollow. “She’s been drinking a lot?”
“She’s been on one of her self-destructive bents. Doesn’t want to take care of herself. It’ll pass.”
My thoughts are a violent swirl. I should’ve been here sooner. I should always be here.
She drives the tip of her sneaker into the linoleum, a deep crease wrinkling her forehead.“I dropped the ball. I’ve been distracted lately, picking up extra shifts because I was planning to pay you back for the cruise, especially since we didn’t even get to go—”
I yank her to my chest. She’s stiff and unyielding, until she’s not. “Soph, stop. That trip was a gift. You never need to pay me back for anything.”
Her hug is weak. “You send too much money. I’m fucking up my side of the agreement. Look what happened. Mom—”
“This is not all on you.” I release her. “I’ve been going about my day-to-day, mostly oblivious—”
“Luke—”
“—and all the while things are escalating here. This is what I get for not living close. I’ve always known it on some level, but this confirmed it. I’m going to have to move. I’ll figure that piece out later. Maybe Rogelio will be ready to discuss…” I massage my temples. “You need a break; you’re clearly stressed to capacity. Damn, Soph, why didn’t you tell me any of this was happening?”
“Because I knew you’d act like this!” Her shrill bark makes the hair on my arms stand up. “Making dramatic plans before we even know the full scope of what’s happening, insisting you know what’s best for everyone. I wanted to know what we are dealing with before I involved you.”
“That’s not your call to make. We’re supposed to be a team.”
“Yeah, you’re right because this is so much better, you storming the hospital up in arms. I need you to be my brother right now, not a white knight. Okay?”
The door cracks open, and Cass sticks her head out. “The doctor’s looking for you.”
Sophie and I jump to action, sliding past Cass as we rush into the lobby. She slides back out of the way while my sister and I approach a short, older man in a mask.
“We’re the family,” I say. “For Marcie Carlisle.”
His greeting is no-nonsense. “CT shows we’ve transitioned to cirrhosis, as we suspected. I’m sorry it’s not better news.”
Soph exhales in a heaving gust.
“We’ve got her on IV meds right now because she complained of extreme nausea during the procedure.”
“What kind of treatment are we looking at? What are the next steps?” I ask.
“Two things at play here in terms of her day-to-day life. It’s crucial to keep her sugar controlled. Diabetes often exacerbates other conditions, things we want to avoid or at least delay at all costs.” His gaze flits from me to Sophie and back again. “And her file says she was treated for alcohol poisoning within the last week?”
“Yes. That’s correct,” Sophie admits.
The man’s voice slows, settles into a sympathetic cadence. “Listen, I know it’s tough. I’ll have you sit down with the liver team in followup, but you’ve got to know I can’t get her on a transplant list, should it come to that, if she’s an active drinker. And even if she’s not on the list, it’s destructive on that tissue and will speed up scarring. Stopping drinking will significantly increase her chances of prolonged wellness.”
“Transplant?” I blurt.
“If it’s not controlled. That’s why it’s of the utmost importance that she institutes those lifestyle changes.”
We can no sooner stop our mother from drinking than we can perform this dude’s surgeries.
My head swirls with all the information I’ve absorbed in the last thirty minutes.
Lifestyle changes. Scarring. Prolonged wellness.
A liver transplant.
My pulse hammers in my throat. I can’t think about those pieces without getting nauseous. I’ll have to call her insurance company as soon as we leave here, make sure this CT is fully covered. See what’s happening with the bills from her emergency visit for the poisoning. That’s something I can handle easily. Efficiently.
At my side, Sophie is stone-still and pale. “This is a lot. I’ll have to…we’ll have to sit down and figure it all out.”
My brain spins and spins, a wheel on an axis.
How much would we need for a hypothetical transplant?
We haven’t met her deductible for the year or her out-of-pocket-max…
I’ve got my annual bonus in June.
Is money really going to matter if she doesn’t stop drinking?
Soph nods toward the door. “Can we see her?”
“Yes. I’d like to transfer her to the gen floor and keep her for observation, to make sure some of these side effects—she had a migraine, too, complained of some other aches and pains—aren’t indicative of something else. But yes, of course.”
Sophie throws me a sounds about right look. Mom’s default state, when she’s not drinking, is to complain about aches and pains.
“Anxiety sometimes has that effect,” he offers charitably. “With procedures. It’s probably nothing.”
“Have you already told her all the same things you told us?” asks Sophie.
He lifts a keycard to an automatic scanner beside the door. “We’ll head in and talk. Together.”
…
It’s like a whole new doctor takes over inside the room. He’s warm and effusive at her bedside, chatting up Mom like they’re old pals. Her raspy laugh fills the tiny room as a nurse dotes on her.
“I’ll level with you,” Doc says, perching on a rolly stool and crossing his arms. “You aren’t going to be able to stay in such great shape if you don’t make some changes, Ms. Marcie. We need to get your body under control.”
“My body.” She skims her IV-supporting hand across her protruding collarbone. “Oh, Doc, you can’t flirt with me like that in front of my kids. They’ll get the wrong idea.”
He wags a gloved finger. “You are trouble, young lady.”
“Young lady! I’m old enough to be your daughter,” she quips. Her face feigns discovery, innocence. “Oh, guess I proved your point, didn’t I?”
“Make me a deal: you’ll sit down with my team in your post-op appointment and talk about ways to control your cirrhosis. Not drinking is the best and most important way. I don’t want you in here with a much more serious conversation in months or years. We want to keep you off the transplant list.”
Mom’s smile is tight. “Anything for you, Doc.”
Sophie rolls her eyes so only I can see and mouths, “Yeah, right.”
After a quick exchange about moving her to an overnight room, the staff clears.
My bones vibrate with anxiety. “Mom, how—”
“Luke, how nice of you to stop by!” she says, infusing every word with too much emphasis. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“It’s only been a few months.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Not even a hug for your ol’ mother?”
I move across the room and squeeze her bony frame once. So fragile. She can’t be more than a hundred pounds. A surge of protectiveness rears in my chest. “Did you hear what the doctor said?”
She waves her hand. “Oh, he’s just giving the legal spiel.”
Sophie pushes off the wall and uncrosses her arms. “It’s not a legal spiel. What he was saying is super important.”
Mom’s sharp features take on an even sharper edge. “Soph, this is not new information. We knew my liver was shit.”
“Ma—”
“Sophie told me about the incident last week.” I study the stubborn set of Mom’s jaw. “That kind of stuff can’t happen. And if your own health isn’t enough of a reason, you’ve got two granddaughters who live in that house looking at you as an example. We can help you. I can look into a facility—”
She fixes her hawkish stare on me. “That’s why you flew all the way here? For an intervention?”
“Not an intervention. I didn’t even know this was happening.”
Sophie paces toward the sink, grumbling about hand hygiene.
“Where is the sympathy for what I’m going through?” Mom tries to sit up in her bed and groans in pain, clutching her stomach.
I move closer. “What hurts?”
“The betrayal, for one. Listen, kids. I appreciate you coming up here with your delightful ideas about how I should live my life, but I’m just not doing it.”
“I can get you on the list at the finest recovery facilities in Southern California.”
“Will either Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson or Jason Statham be leading the sessions?”
“What—”
“Because otherwise, I don’t want to be on any list. Count me out.”
Count me out. How many times have we counted her out growing up? When she disappeared on a whim and failed to be what we needed her to be?
And we had to step up every time and count ourselves in.
I square my shoulders, fortifying for backlash. “Be reasonable, Mom. We want to help you. We’re not just going to stand by and watch you wreck your own life.”
Even more than you already have, left to your own devices.
Mom’s gaze cuts to me. “We? You’re trying to ship me off to rehab and you’re talking about we?”
“I’m not trying to ship you off. This is a family. Your decisions affect other people. Everything Sophie does, she does for you, her kids, me. Everything I do, I do for all of us. And you’re telling me you aren’t willing to try—”
“I’ve never asked you kids to do a damn thing for me. Never. I don’t want your help. I’m nobody’s charity case. Let me live my life the way I want to. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you.”
The room goes red at the edges. “If we don’t help, then what? You want us to let you be homeless? You want the house repossessed?”
“No! I’ve wanted to sell the house countless times, get myself an apartment, and get out of Sophie’s hair, but ever since you put your name on the deed, it’s not even mine anymore.”
Her words lash like a whip. “You asked for that. We agreed, as a family, that it made the most sense to transfer it to me so I could work directly with the bank to make the payments. We agreed, as a family, that you’d live with Sophie. And do you remember why?”
She mutters under her breath.
“Because you said you didn’t trust yourself. After you ran off with Dominic and he abandoned you at that motel and you almost drank yourself to death, you said you didn’t want to be in charge of anything anymore. Ring a bell?”
“Enough, Luke.” Sophie throws up her hands, her cry bouncing through the sterile room. “We’re not going to get anywhere talking to her like this.”
A quiet knock at the door steals all our attention, stopping the fight in its tracks. “Excuse me, Marcie Carlisle? I’m with patient transport.”
Marcie Carlisle.
Sometimes it feels like I’m mourning a woman who is still alive. Like my mother isn’t my mother anymore, just this Marcie Carlisle woman my sister and I care for, who in return couldn’t care less what becomes of her. Or of us. Despite all the money I’ve thrown at the situation, we’ve grown so far apart.
I’m hit with a surge of grief so powerful it almost brings me to my knees.
It wasn’t always this way.
We used to be close. Now she just resents me.
Mom was my fucking idol. She was the woman who showed up to my classroom to stuff party invites into my classmates’ backpacks because she knew I was too shy to do it myself. Too terrified no one would come. She bleached the kitchen until our noses burned, bought every decoration the Dollar Tree had, cooked pounds of every “salad” imaginable—potato, tuna, pasta, all of them—so the party would be perfect. I was overwhelmed by the number of kids that came, but she was the life of the party, leading games and pumping the room with fun. She fucking thrived. I wanted to be easy and comfortable in a crowd, but so long as I had her, I didn’t have to be. I didn’t need a dad anymore. She was enough.
It’d be easy to chalk it up to the end of childhood. Maybe she only ever wanted kids, not a family, and now that we’re grown she’s content to move on with her life.
But I refuse to believe it can’t be good again, even as the dark and twisted part of my brain tells me, Let it go, she wants to be left alone, she doesn’t care. I’ve been clinging to the happy moments, however few and far between, because they remind me that things can be good, albeit rarely.
Maybe I can’t fully fix her health—she clearly doesn’t want that, and getting her to take care of herself will continue to be a fight—but I can find a way to fix our family. I can convince Mom we’re worth taking care of herself for. Because we’re the only family we’ve all got.
I need to get back here and fight for it, because paying the bills isn’t enough.
I just need to make a plan.