Page 103 of A Really Bad Idea

“Oh, yeah? Then, what am I thinking?” I challenge her.

“How bad you feel for all the times you didn’t pick up the phone when I called.”

My jaw drops in surprise. She’s absolutely correct. “I always pick up the phone when you call.”

“No, you don’t. Sometimes, you hit the End button and let it go to voice mail.”

“Only when I’m working,” I say and catch her raised brow at my lie. I have to chuckle at her very true accusation. “Well, sometimes, I don’t pick up because I know you will give me your advice of the day.”

“It’s called caring.” She breathes deeply and sags into her pillow. “My mother was like that, too. I hated it, but it’s the only way I know. I have this knowledge I want to impart on my daughter. I’ve lived a beautiful life, and I’ve had some troubling moments. I’ve fought with friends and lost touch with relatives. The things I once thought were important are insignificant, and what I value the most is the only thing that matters. You. My family. Maybe I push too hard.”

“No. You push just the right amount.” I lament quietly.

“Something has been going on with you lately. Do you want to tell me what it is?”

“No,” I state.

“I could die tomorrow, and then you’ll feel regret never telling me while I was alive.”

I want to laugh at her uncanny ability to be so … her. This unrelenting woman, hours away from a life-and-death moment, is still trying to pry.

“You can’t pull the I might die tomorrow card.”

“It’s working.”

I let out a puff of air and concede, “If you must know, I’m taking your advice. For once. I’m trying to have a baby. I wasn’t going to tell you because I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

She doesn’t look pleased by this news. “My advice was to freeze your eggs.”

“I’m gonna go for it. The whole enchilada. Why wait, right? Why are you looking at me like that? I thought you’d be happy.”

With a somber smile, she pats the sheet below her. “I want you to be joyous, but don’t do something because you think it will make me happy.”

I puff out my lips. My entire life, I’ve been running away from my mother’s advice when, really, I’ve been grabbing it at every turn. I wonder if that’s the universal driver—the thing that pushes us into the decisions we make. We’re either seeking our parents’ approval or doing what we can to prove them wrong.

“Mother knows best,” I say with a chagrin. “Turns out, you were on to something. As a kid, I was mortified on a daily basis. The way you’d burst into a room and command it, you were the loudest mom at the PTA and the craziest one on the sidelines. If we had friends over, you would ask them a thousand questions about who they were and who their parents were. And forget about it if I brought a boy home. He would get the third degree and even be told to keep it in his pants. You even made me wear a shoulder strap in middle school, so I wouldn’t slouch. You are the epitome of the helicopter mom.

“And yet, I’ve also enjoyed it. You played games with us and did performances in the living room. You taught me how to cook, and I have decent style since you harped on me at every turn. The care packages you sent in college made me roll my eyes, but I looked forward to them. I have zero crow’s-feet because you are always shoving serums in my pocket. And, whenever I’ve made a mistake, you are always there to tell me I can do better. Because you are so great, I want to be just like you.”

I grab her hand. “So, that’s why I’ve been camping out here and hovering. The thought of you not being here to help guide me through this next phase of my life is scaring the hell out of me. You’re my mom, and there’s no one who could ever replace you. Truly one of a kind.”

She pulls on my arm, and I follow the pull to the bed, taking a seat and then leaning down into her as she wraps her arms around me. I lay my head against her neck and let the tears roll off. Her other hand is rubbing the back of my head, petting it with a soothing touch. It reminds me of when she held me as a girl after I used to crawl into her bed following a nightmare. My mother’s touch makes everything better.

“Oh, Meadow,” she says with another squeeze. It’s such a tender moment. I shouldn’t be surprised when she makes it even more emotional when she utters the words, “I knew you loved the serums.”

I laugh hard and lift my head, rubbing under my eyes. She wipes my face with me and lays a palm on my cheek.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, “no matter what. You are my daughter, and you can do anything.”

Eight o’clock rolls around way too fast. Brian and Beth are the first to wish her good luck. Beth shows my mom the gifts she brought—new pajamas for when she’s rehabilitating at home.

Brian is very businesslike as he kisses Mom and says, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

I cringe at his word choice.

I don’t say anything because I’m feeling pretty vulnerable right now, and everything that needed to be said was spoken last night. I hang in the hallway and wait as Dad kisses Mom for what seems like a thousand times and tells her he loves her a thousand more. He’s holding her hand as the nurses roll her out of the room and into the hallway.

Christian should already be scrubbing in. I haven’t heard from him since he left my apartment yesterday morning, and I haven’t bothered to text, for fear of taking him out of his routine. I’ve never valued it as much as I do today.