Do they?
According to every Indiana Jones movie, they do not.
Once Bennie’s in bed, and after practicing my speech nine hundred times, I grab wine for courage. Instead of using a glass, I grab a stein that usually sits in the windowsill for decoration—it’s a more appropriate size for the conversation ahead. In a chair at the kitchen table and with my stein of wine, I dial my sisters and mom into a conference call, something we used to do weekly. Like everything else, the busier life gets, the less time we make for each other.
“Rue-Rue,” Remy coos first, setting off a chain reaction of greetings between her, Reese, and my mom as they answer. Remy is in bed with a book, Reese is still at the office, and Mom is making her tea; I take a hefty sip of wine as they chatter.
“Mom has to tell you something,” I cut in, making the air go dead. “Mom, tell them.”
I’m fully prepared for her to spin some deceitfully deflective story when she says, “I have a benign brain tumor.”
While my heart stutters like it’s the first time I’m hearing it, in unison, Reese and Remy shout, “What?”
Without being forced, Mom tells them everything—about the accident with Dad that led to the discovery, the years of monitoring and scans, and the growth that’s led to “minor symptoms.”
“What kind of symptoms?” Reese demands.
Mom’s quiet.
“She’s been forgetting things—names, mostly,” I explain. “And getting headaches.” I swallow. “And there are some signs of impaired judgment.”
“Like?” Remy asks.
“Like—” I take another sip of wine. “Giving all of our money—and her money and Dad’s retirement money—to a con man.”
This shoots off another round of questions—especially from Reese who’s even more of a financial wizard than Dad was.
I mentally pat myself on the back at how calm I remain—that’s what happens when a problem has a solid solution. I’m not hysterical because there’s nothing to be hysterical about. I’m going to fix this.
Also, the wine stein is doing a damn good job of doing a damn good job.
“Now what?” Reese demands. “What did the bank say? The cops? I know a guy at the FTC if we need him.”
I don’t even know what the FTC is.
“Nothing yet,” I tell them. “But the doctor says Mom should consider surgery because the symptoms will likely worsen as it grows. And she’s refusing.”
Reese and Remy assault her with lectured shouts.
Mom scoffs through the phone. “I’m not refusing,” she says over them. “I just don’t want to do it.”
“That’s called refusing,” Reese says. “Nice try on the word play though.”
“You know if a doctor’s saying it you need to listen,” Remy says. “Nobody wants brain surgery, but—God, Mom. This is a big deal.”
“It is not.” I know her well enough to tune in to the doubt in her voice. “I’m fine.”
Reese scoffs. “Dad would severely disagree.”
“About Dad,” I interject. “Mom apparently led a double life for a few months and got impregnated by a treasure hunter and I’m the evidence.” More shouts. “And—” I accidentally drink all my wine. “I’m still married to Nash.”
A complete grilling follows. I refill my stein and allow the whole twisted tale to spill out of my mouth. Maybe it’s the fact I have a plan, or maybe I have an undiagnosed case of dissociative disorder, but I feel zero panic as I explain.
When every detail is shared, Remy says, “Wow,” Reese says, “Shit,” and Mom says, “You three act like you just found out I’m some kind of criminal.”
“Rue didn’t belong to Dad,” Reese says. “It’s a pretty big damn deal.” She pauses a beat. “It’s weird though, because he was the only one who seemed to think she was fun to be around.”
“Very funny,” I say flatly.
