“Good morning, sweetie.” I waited, but her greeting wasn’t followed by the typical game of twenty questions.
Abandoning the idea of juice, I closed the fridge and faced her. “Good news. I didn’t lose any weight while I was sick. The scale is rocking in my favor. Sugar levels are normal, too.” I’d never been diabetic, but I tested my sugar once a week as indicated on her chart.
“That’s good. There’s coffee.”
I glanced at the fresh pot, then stared at the top of Stella’s downcast head. A few strands of silver stood out among the brown. Her entire focus was on the notebook. She didn’t pick up the pen and write anything down.
My comment did not kick-start her engine. She didn’t request my bathroom charts, feel my forehead, or check my pulse.
I pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
She blinked from her daze and glanced from me to the coffeepot. “You don’t want coffee? Moderate consumption is good for you. As little as one cup a day has significant health benefits.”
“I know. I’ll have one in a bit.”
“Oh. Okay. Would you like breakfast? Your friend stayed the night, didn’t he? I can make pancakes or eggs.”
“Gale’s still sleeping. What’s going on?”
She spun her mug once, twice, then lifted it to her mouth, sipping. “I haven’t made French toast in a while. I could do that.”
I didn’t respond and waited.
“Omelets?”
“Mom.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to see Dr. Jacob.”
“Is that what this is about? Because I mentioned you should think about an appointment?”
“I don’t understand. Why is it wrong that I care about your health?”
“It’s not. You know that. I’ve played this game long enough, and it’s not good for either of us. I’m twenty-four, not six. You aren’t fooling me, and I’m tired of living like this.”
“You’re going to leave like he did.”
“No.” I assumed thehewas my father, but we’d never talked about him, and I had no memory of the man. He left when I was an infant. All I had were Elk City rumors to go on, and I didn’t give a shit about finding him anymore.
“Not like he did,” I continued. “But I do want to move out. I can’t live at home forever. We’d still see each other all the time. I could have you over for dinner. We could plan movie nights. Talk on the phone or text.”
“You don’t answer my texts.”
“I can do better with that, but things are going to change real soon, and an appointment would help you adjust to the idea.”
We were dancing around the real issue, and she knew it. It wasn’t about losing a connection with her adult son, but talking directly about the real problem made her skittish and defensive. If I could convince her to seek help via one avenue, it would extend to the other.
“I could go with you,” I suggested. “We could talk to Dr. Jacob together.”
“He’ll want to lock me up.”
“It’s therapy, not prison.”
“It’s the same.”
“He might not. If you’re cooperative, you’ll be able to stay at home.”
“He’ll put me on pills.”
