She realized her mother was still speaking and swallowed hard, trying to clear her mind enough to listen.
“It’s back. And this time, my heart is not as young as it once was,” Annette continued. “And you know, it was affected by the treatment last time.”
“But that was over a decade ago! How can it just…come back?” Sylvie asked.
Her mom shook her head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. It just happens.”
“And Dr. Tellis is sure? Like, really sure? He’s not just guessing, right? Because when I asked him about that pain in myfoot, he told me it was plantar fasciitis, but when I had Helen do her physio thing on me, she figured out I’d actually dislocated one of those little tarsal bones, or whatever they’re called—not plantar whatever at all—”
The look on her mom’s face stopped her words dead in their track.
“That trip to Charleston with Rhonda…” Sylvie started, realizing. “That wasn’t for her seventieth birthday, was it?”
“No, baby. It wasn’t.”
“But that was months ago! Why didn’t you tell me?” she exclaimed. “Mom! This is…”
“It was my choice,” Annette interrupted, too calmly for the situation. “As was every choice I’ve made about it.”
A cold shiver ran over her as she heard her mom’s words. “What does that mean?”
“Sweetheart, please breathe and have some coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee! I want to know what’s been going on! You’ve been sick for months! You’ve been lying to me about where you’re going.”
“Are you my keeper?”
She was stunned for a moment, not expecting her mother to ask that. “No.”
“Exactly as I thought. So, I don’t report to you, do I?”
She shook her head, looking up to meet her mom’s gaze before she could fire off another question. “But you can see why this would freak me out, right?”
“Yes,” Annette admitted, surprising Sylvie. “Which is why I made the choices I’ve made. I wanted to deal with it and make up my own mind without having to navigate and manage your emotions while I did that. I’m sorry I couldn’t communicate more openly with you about it and set a boundary with you at the time, but I felt—”
“Set a boundary?” Sylvie asked, exasperated. “Mom, have you been—”
Her mother gave her a tight smile, effectively cutting off her question before she could finish asking it. “Yes. All those weekly lunch dates with Rhonda have actually been with her daughter. Rhonda is a very good therapist, apparently. She let me join a few group support sessions for terminal patients.”
She sat back in her chair, wondering if she was in some kind of fever dream. Her mother had been in therapy? She’d thought her mom could benefit from it for years, especially after losing her husband and son the way she had, but she never imagined she’d actually agree to go.
“Don’t say that word—terminal. It’s only terminal if we do nothing,” she said, regaining some of her calm. “So, what are we doing about this?”
Annette cleared her throat. “Nothing. I’m dying, and that’s all there is to it.”
It felt like someone had pulled the plug in her stomach, and her heart was being dragged down the drain. The room tilted, and the edges of her vision became dark and fuzzy. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. My heart hasn’t been good for years—it won’t last through another round of treatment. And it’s come back worse than last time, so I would need more medication, more surgery than before. I’d have to spend my last months throwing up, in pain, and dosed up to my eyeballs, while watching your heart break all over again, all just to have a heart attack going up the stairs. If I had to choose—and I have chosen—I’d prefer to enjoy my time with you while I can. See my friends. Eat whatever I want. Have two glasses of wine with dinner. And maybe…then have a heart attack on the stairs.”
“Mom…” Sylvie’s breath shuddered as she tried to process the news.
Annette shook her head sternly. “No, I’m not done. You, my darling girl, need to live your life. You had so many dreams, so much you were going to do. Do you remember you wrote a list?”
Nodding, she recalled the old notebook, but she couldn’t remember where it was now.
“Well, you need to finish the list,” Annette said. “I’ve changed my will.”
“What does your will have to do with a bucket list I wrote fifteen years ago?” She winced, realizing she had said the phrasebucket list.
