“But we’re going to anyway.”
“Probably.”
“That’s not a plan, Roman.”
“Sure it is. It’s just not a good one.”
She stops at her car, turns to face me. “But Moxie? Really?”
“Would you prefer something traditional? Sweetheart? Baby?”
“I’d prefer you follow your shoulder protocol and stop making my life complicated.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me. I’m only one year older than you.”
“Yes, Moxie.”
“That’s not better.”
But she’s definitely fighting a smile now.
I’ll take it.
11
MARNIE
October 8-9 - Home Opener
Thursday morning,I’m standing in my childhood home watching Teresa, the hospice aide, adjust Mom’s pain pump.
“Small doses throughout the day are better than waiting until the pain is unbearable,” Teresa explains, her voice gentle but practical.
Mom nods from the hospital bed that’s replaced the living room couch. She’s trying to focus, but I can see the effort it takes. The way her eyes don’t quite track. The way she keeps losing the thread of what Teresa’s saying.
“Marnie knows all this,” Mom says. “She’s medical.”
“I’m a PT, Mom. This is different.”
“Still medical.” She reaches for my hand.
Her hand feels like paper in mine. When did that happen? When did her bones become visible through skin that’s gone translucent, when did the woman who used to garden for hours start needing help to sit up?
“Go to work. Teresa and I will be fine.”
My phone buzzes.
Jake
Winters wants you in Barrett’s office. Now.
The meeting is exactlywhat I expected.
Winters has prepared documentation about Roman’s extended timeline, complete with charts showing projected return dates versus “typical recovery patterns.”
“Three additional weeks is excessive,” he says, clicking through his presentation like he’s revealing scientific breakthroughs instead of showing graphs any first-year PT student could create.
