“Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize we were here already,” I reply, gathering my bag and tumbler. Can’t go anywhere without my emotional support water bottle. Not sure how I went from having my water fountain visits timed to three Mississippis to carrying a forty-ounce water jug everywhere.
“Where did you go? You looked lost in your thoughts.”
“Reminiscing. Riding shotgun with you brings up a lot of old memories.”
“Yeah, it does. Definitely been a while,” he murmurs, tearing his eyes away from mine and looking out the driver’s window.
“It has,” I reply with a tinge of sadness. I wonder whether he realizes how long it’s been since we last spoke. “Can you stop calling me Kitty Kat, by the way? It wasn’t cute when we were eight. Annoying as hell in high school. And it pisses me off now.”
He turns back to look at me and chuckles. “I can try, but old habits die hard.”
“Ugh. You could if you wanted to,” I claim, opening the truck door and getting out. “Let’s get moving before my mom gives me a lecture about not showing up promptly at the beginning of visiting hours.”
“Sounds like nothing has changed. Your mom’s still ruling with an iron fist?”
“Pretty much. You know how she is,” I say, shaking my head and pulling my coat tighter around myself. My mom was a stickler for the rules when I was growing up, and that didn’t change when I became an adult. She challenges me to strive for perfection in every aspect of my life.
“There are a lot of things I miss about this town. About growing up. Your mom’s endless list of rules is not one of them,” he teases with a grin.
“Let’s not make her mad by being late, then,” I say, picking up my pace across the snow-covered parking lot.
I try to prepare myself for how my mom might react to seeing Jake after so much time has passed, and how he could react to seeing my mom, knowing he’ll never seehismom again. I send up a silent prayer, hoping our visit won’t be too awkward. That’s the last thing either of them needs.
A few minutes after visiting hours start, we walk into her hospital room to find her propped up in bed, scrolling on her phone. God only knows what she’s posting on Facebook. I immediately regret not changing her password and blocking her access to certain websites when I had control of her phone after the accident. I don’t know why her generation believes everything they see on their feed and loves to repost it. The crazier, the better.
“Hey, Mom. You look like you’re feeling better this morning. I brought someone with me.” I step out of the doorway so Jake can come into the room.
“Oh my God, Jake. I’m so glad Kate finally got hold of you,” she says, putting her phone down and looking him in the eyes. “I’m so sorry about your mom. She was such a wonderful woman. My best friend. Still can’t believe she’s gone,” she chokes out while tears start to slowly fall.
“Me, too. Feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from,” he replies, making his way across the room to her and pulling her into a gentle hug.
They hold onto each other for a few moments before Jake lets go and takes a step back. He’s visibly shaken and wrings his hands, clearly unsure of what else to do or say.
“Have the doctors been to see you this morning?” I’m hoping I haven’t missed them stopping by. I’d like to get some more information about her condition, so I can start planning to support her recovery.
“No. Just a bunch of interns who ask the same questions over and over again,” she replies, annoyed. “I don’t understand why one of them can’t ask the questions and write the information in my medical record. Documentation exists for a reason.”
I shake my head. She worked in this very hospital for decades, yet acts surprised by how it works. As if the entire medical system has changed significantly in the three years since she retired. Her standards are unrealistic and unrelenting.
“They’re only doing their job,” Jake remarks, staring out the window.
“I’m sure we’ll see the doctors at some point. I have a few questions to ask about your recovery,” I say, setting my bag on the floor and taking a seat in the chair next to the bed. Unsurprisingly, it’s just as uncomfortable as the one I slept in the first night in the ICU.
“We can talk about my recovery later. We need to start planning the funeral. I assume you haven’t made any calls.” My mom looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“Not yet,” I calmly reply, wondering why she believes I’ve had time to make calls when I was with her all day yesterday and didn’t head home until the evening. “Could we wait until later today or tomorrow before we have this discussion?” I understand the urgency behind funeral planning, but I’d love to buy Jake some time to digest the news before he’s faced with making decisions.
“No. You’re both here, so there’s absolutely no reason to wait,” Mom says, glancing from me to Jake. “Judy’s funeral needs to be exceptional. She deserves it.”
“I want the same. My mom deserves the best,” Jake agrees, turning his attention from the window to my mom.
“That’s what I thought you’d say. I’m glad to hear it,” she replies, gazing warmly at Jake. “I expect you two to worktogether on planning the funeral. Every detail needs to be perfect. Kate, I’m counting on you to make sure that happens.”
“I can do that. You know I’d do anything for Judy,” I say, trying to fight back the tears.
“Good. We should also talk about her will.”
“I don’t care about any of that.” Jake starts to pace around the small room. Back and forth along the foot of the bed, his hands occasionally running through his sandy-blond hair.
