I skimmed the center column. Country. Region. City. Postal code. I looked at Mama. “It’s that easy?”
“It’s that easy.”
She closed the laptop, turned, and hugged me. Her arms felt frail inside their thick woolen sleeves. “Now, my sweet girl, you go find your Andrew Ryan.”
“If I do, I may not be able to visit on Thursday.”
“We can have turkey any ole time. You go.”
Before leaving River House, I detoured down a carpeted corridor accessed from one side of the dining room. Dr. Finch’s office door was cracked, allowing a partial view of her seated behind an ornately carved desk. A plaque shared the fact that her first name was Luna.
I knocked softly, then entered.
Dr. Finch looked up. A moment of surprise, then she gestured to one of two chairs opposite her.
As I sat, Dr. Finch leaned back and steepled her fingertips. She was short and round, but not too short and round. Her hair was curly, dyed brown, and blunt-cut just below her ears.
“Her spirits are up,” I said.
“Yes.”
I smiled, and Dr. Finch smiled back.
“She thinks she is dying.”
A pause, then, “Your mother has cancer.”
My heart froze in my chest. “She just learned this?”
“She’s been seeing an oncologist for several months.”
“And I wasn’t informed?”
“We are not your mother’s primary physicians. We attend to her mental well-being.”
“Can the two be separated?”
“Upon arrival, your mother informed us of her condition and requested confidentiality. She is an adult. We must respect her wishes. Now she feels it is time we talk to you.”
“Go on.”
“Go on?”
“Tell me the rest.”
“The cancer is spreading.”
“Of course it is. That’s what cancer does. How is it being treated?” Luna Finch regarded me with eyes that answered my question. Yes, I thought. No hair loss and wigs for Mama.
“Would chemo help?” I asked. “It might.”
I swallowed. “And if she continues to refuse?”
Again the eyes.
I looked down at my hands. My right thumb was red and swollen. Itchy. A mosquito, I diagnosed.
“What now?”
“Your mother has chosen to stay at Heatherhill Farm as long as she can.”
“And how long will that be?”
“Perhaps a good while.”
I nodded.
“Is the number we have on file for you still current? In case we need to reach you?”
“Yes.” I rose.
“I’m very sorry,” she said.
Outside, the mist had burned off. High above, a white vapor trail streaked a cloudless blue sky.
Mama couldn’t be dying.
Yet Luna Finch said it was so.
CHAPTER 5
I DON’T SLEEP well on planes. Believe me, I try.
It was midafternoon by the time I got back to Charlotte. Eight when I finished a prelim on Larabee’s car trunk case. Ten when I finally found and booked a flight and room.
After arranging for cat care with my neighbor, I packed a carry-on, took a shower, and fell into bed.
My mind kept churning, offering up outtakes, unedited, lacking chronology.
Childhood memories of my mother.
Happy times. Reading to Harry and me on the garden swing. Quoting Shakespeare, Milton, other long-dead strangers we didn’t understand. Driving the Buick on illicit après-bedtime ice cream sorties.
Sad times. Listening outside Mama’s bedroom door. Confused by the tears, the breaking glass. Terrified she’d come out. Terrified she wouldn’t.
Memories of Andrew Ryan. Happy times. Skiing at Mont Tremblant in the Laurentian Mountains. Celebrating successes at Hurley’s Irish pub. Laughing at our shared cockatiel Charlie’s bawdy quips.
Sad times. The day Ryan was shot. The plane crash that took the life of his partner. The night we ended our relationship.
Doubts about my upcoming excursion. Was it futile? Ryan’s email was almost a month old. Had he moved on?