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I furrow my brow at the incredibly random request. “Your insurance card?” I question. “Why would I have that?”
“I just forgot mine, and they need it and—”
“Wait… Who needs it?”
“The…uh…workers. The staff.”
I scrunch up my nose in confusion, but when I hear “Paging Dr. Langley” cut through the background noise on her end of the line, my eyes go wide. “Mom, where are you?”
“I’m just…uh…out running some errands. Getting some milk, you know.”
“There is no way the lady at the checkout line is asking for your insurance card,” I refute. “Stella Page, tell me where you are right now.”
“Fine,” she sighs, like I’m the one exasperating her. “I’m at the hospital, but it’s no big deal. I’m good.”
“The hospital? My goodness, Mom, way to bury the lede!”
“Carly, calm down.”
“I’m plenty calm, and I’m in terrific shape. My resting heart rate sits somewhere right above dead, so I’m sure my body can handle it if my blood pressure escalates a little bit. Now, why are you at the hospital?”
Her sigh is deep and long. “Well, sweetie, I had a little bit of a mishap, but I’m fi—”
“Don’t tell me it’s fine,” I cut her off. “Tell me what happened.”
“I had a little bit of a…uh…fall,” she eventually answers. “Yeah. A fall. No big deal. Just fractured my tailbone a teensy bit.”
“Oh my God, you fractured your tailbone?”
“Yes.”
I shouldn’t be smiling, but I’m smiling. “You’re telling me you literally broke your butt?”
She laughs. “Carly.”
“What? I’m just saying…pretty funny, is all.”
“Oh yeah. It’s hilarious.”
I grimace when I realize this is my mom we’re talking about and she’s at the freaking hospital. But come on, a broken ass is probably one of the funniest injuries out there. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”
“A little, but I’m fine. They’re making me stay a few nights, though, just to make sure everything is good.”
My head falls back. Shit. Funny-sounding or not, anything that puts my mom in the hospital for more than a night is probably a reason for at least one of her children to head to Florida. “Does Willow know?”
“Not yet. She was my next call.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, and once I get all the details about where she’s been admitted and reassure her that I’ll deal with the insurance shit—aka I’ll get Willow, who is much better at handling bureaucratic bullshit, to do it—I tell her I’ll call her right back, and I text my sister.
Me: Mom just called me and tried to act like she was out buying fucking milk, but apparently, she fell and has been admitted to Tampa Bay Medical Center for a fractured tailbone.
Willow: WHAT? What happened? Is she okay?
Me: She sounds like she’s okay, but I think one of us needs to go down there and make sure everything is ACTUALLY okay. You know, one of us…
Willow: I’m not an idiot, so I know when you say “one of us,” you mean me, but I can’t leave.
Willow: I’m swamped at work. Like, SWAMPED. We’ve been working on this case for months, and it’s finally going to trial starting tomorrow.
My two-years-older-than-me sister is a big hotshot lawyer in Chicago.
And I know she’s worked her ass off on her current case.
If it goes well, she’ll be made partner of her firm.
Before I can respond, she sends another message.
Willow: Shit. Can you handle this, Carly?
I roll my eyes. I know I’m lazy, but I’m not an idiot. I got my degree from Georgia Tech in computer engineering, for God’s sake. Just because I don’t use it doesn’t mean my brain has completely atrophied.
Willow: Months. I’ve been working on this for MONTHS. I can’t miss it, and maybe, since it’s not ski season yet for you, you’ll have an easier time taking a few days off…
Eventually, I put her out of her panic misery.
Me: It’s fine, Willow. I understand and I’ll go. Don’t stress about it. But just so you know, this is the exact reason why I’m Mom’s favorite.
Willow: Oh, whatever.
That text is followed by the middle finger emoji.
I snort.
Me: LOL. Love you. I’ll keep you updated. Also, if you want to make it up to me, you can figure out Mom’s insurance information. She can’t find her card, and I don’t have a fucking clue.
Willow: Love you too, you little brat. I’ll call the hospital and take care of the insurance. I have the information in my filing cabinet.
I laugh. Statements like I have the information in my filing cabinet are the exact reason I am our mom’s favorite. Stella Page might be seventy years old and living in a landominium inside of an independent senior living community, but she has spunk. And she is the last person who would ever put something in a filing cabinet.
The boob job she got five years ago is proof of that.
With my sassy mother and her apparent butt injury on my mind, a few minutes later, I’m on my phone, pulling up flight options for tomorrow morning.
