If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(37)

For every high, there was now a low.

An hour ago, a recent deed for property in Broward County, Florida, arrived in my inbox. It had taken Lyle a couple of days to make good on his promise, but it had come. Thank God. I’d sent it to Stan, breathing easier for the first time in days. My marriage remained an open question, but at least my husband wasn’t a thief. Once he got investors, my mom would be okay again, even if I never was.

Then, thirty minutes ago, my mother’s next-door neighbor, Mrs. Morton, had called me after she’d found my mother passed out near the mailbox. She’d also called the EMTs, who’d arrived before I did. Mom’s pulse and blood pressure were fine, and they’d found no serious injuries but suggested we monitor her for signs of a mild concussion. Meanwhile, my heart had yet to resume its normal rhythm.

My mother signed the Refusal of Medical Aid form and handed it back to the female EMT while the male finished packing the blood pressure cuff. I thanked them for their thorough exam before they closed the ambulance doors.

“Oh my goodness, Amanda. I’m so embarrassed.” My mother covered her face as the vehicle pulled away from the curb. My brain could scarcely keep pace with the gauntlet of little disasters life had thrown at us Turner women lately. But words rarely helped someone as much as a hug did, and since no words came to mind anyway, I wrapped my arms around her.

Neither of us liked being a public spectacle, so we broke apart quickly. The vacant look in Mom’s eyes had become more frequent this past week. Although I now felt confident she’d be repaid, the guilt over putting her through all this remained.

I picked out a stray bit of leaf stuck in her hair before looping my arm through hers and leading her inside. We’d not fully recovered from losing my dad, making my mother’s downward spiral that much more painful to watch.

With my hand pressed gently on her back, I said, “Sit and rest while I straighten up.”

“I can help.” She bent to pick up a throw pillow that had fallen off the sofa.

“You just fainted, Mom. Please let me do this small thing for you.”

While she fussed with the pillow, all I could think about was that this pattern couldn’t continue.

With a heavy sigh, she pulled at the hem of her favorite day dress—navy with white flowers, bought last spring. “I got a grass stain.”

That much I could fix. “Go change and I’ll spray it for you.”

“I think I want to lie down.” She rubbed her temple, reminding me uneasily of the possibility of a concussion.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to sleep right now.”

“I’m exhausted, Amanda. I’m not sleeping at night.” She turned and walked toward her room, waving over her shoulder while I shoveled another pile of blame onto mine. “Let me take a catnap . . . Wake me in fifteen minutes.”

I supposed that couldn’t hurt, and no one could withstand the silent pleading of the bags beneath her eyes. I followed her to her bedroom, where she kicked off her shoes, changed into a cozy tracksuit, and lay on the bed.

“Fifteen minutes.” I grabbed the stained dress from the end of her mattress, then closed her door and went to the laundry area to apply a stain remover. On my way to the kitchen, I collected two discarded mugs and a plate. A cold, burned potpie sat on the counter near the sink. Had it been out all night? I sniffed it, wrinkled my nose, and scraped most of the contents of the pan into the trash.

Through the window above the sink, the swaying of the sycamore branches at the edge of the backyard drew me into a trance. Twice in one week my mom had burned food, and now a random collapse? I swayed, dizzy because the person who’d been my rock was crumbling like she had in the weeks following Dad’s funeral.

Oh, how she’d shrieked when Erin had suggested we cremate Dad and toss his ashes in the bay. For days after, she’d barked at us for the smallest reason.

But much worse were the weeks that followed. Quiet, long days when she’d refused to dress or shower. When I’d stopped by at random times to find her napping or crying. Kevin had temporarily taken over handling her bills for her, but she rebuffed my offer to pack up Dad’s things for three months.

Yet even with that erratic behavior I’d never sensed her being a danger to herself. Not like now. This mental fog seemed rapid, but then again, perhaps I’d missed it unfolding under my nose exactly like I’d missed Lyle’s affair.

I might cry if I had any tears left. Tears hadn’t helped me anyway, and they sure wouldn’t help my mother.

The last bits of gravy and peas fell into the sink as I rinsed the pie pan before putting it in the dishwasher. Like pieces of my life, the mess circled the drain and disappeared while I watched it happen.

I shook out my hands, which had balled into fists, and got to work. Within ten minutes I’d finished loading the dishwasher, wiped the counters, refolded the throw blanket, fluffed the sofa cushions, and vacuumed the living room. The instant gratification restored some sense of control, and perhaps offered a bit of penance, too.

Mom clearly needed some TLC, so I fixed her favorite turkey and Dijon sandwich. After pouring a glass of diet soda and rinsing a cluster of grapes, I took the plate to the dining table, where the place setting for one pinched my heart.

If I closed my eyes and concentrated, my dad’s deep voice and pleasant chuckle still echoed off the walls. Mom used to complain about the nonstop music and the tinkering noises coming from the basement or garage, but now she probably missed those things the same way I’d been missing the otherwise annoying sneeze from Lyle’s seasonal allergies.