Page 192 of Her Wicked Plan

A sob escapes her, making me think the worst. The thought of my mother dying without me by her side. Without saying goodbye. The fear ripples through me. “She isn’t doing well.”

A small bit of relief hits me but quickly vanishes when understanding takes over. People who are sick sometimes get better before they get worse.

Hope is held out in front of you as you watch them smile, breathe normally, and do things they couldn’t while battling the sickness.

That hope dangles in your face, and you believe the person will stay this way and that they will improve to where the sickness has left their body. All hope is renewed until death’s hands yank that hope away.

It is a tricky feeling because all that hope and daydreaming of a better life is ripped away from you, and you have to watch the person you love slowly deteriorate. “She was fine the other day. I spoke with her on the phone.”

“She had been doing fine, Leo, but...” Not anymore.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, the grip on my phone turns hard. “I’ll leave right now.”

We hang up and immediately click on the Uber app to order a car. I wish I had my own, but there has been no point since I have been working here.

Myles had been using it when his car was in the shop, but that was months ago. I could have easily brought my car here and parked it in the lot, using it to escape for the weekends.

Luckily for me, Uber will be here sooner rather than later, which surprises me, given that we are in the middle of nowhere. Whatever I have packed so far will be good enough.

There is no time to waste when time is already precious as it is. I sling the bag over my shoulder and rush to the lobby. Edith is in her place, as always, and shoots me a concerned look over the desk.

“Leo, is everything all right?”

I turn my back against the door. “Tell Dr. Bennett I had to leave earlier than expected. I’ll see you on Monday.”

My voice is hurried, and there is no doubt she can hear the terror laced within it. She nods in response, and I’m out the door.

Time is slowing to an agonizing pace during the trip home. I keep double-checking the driver's speed because I’m sure he is driving way under the speed limit. Every time I look, though, he is going about ten over.

When we arrive at my parents' house, I open the back door before he puts the car in park. I throw him a twenty, thanking him for the drive, then slam the door shut before jogging up the path to the house.

The door opens to quietness. There is no laughter. The TV isn’t on in the living room. The lights are off, and even though it is midday, the sun is hiding behind the clouds, making the inside of the house look eerie and sad.

Readjusting the bag on my shoulder, I stop when I hear the pitter-patter of small feet from the other room. Turning my body, Carter walks up to me with a piece of paper in one hand and a crayon in the other.

“Uncle Leo, look what I made for Grandma!” His smile reaches his ears as he holds out the paper.

Crouching down, I take the paper for him to assess the drawing. Carter stands at my side, his tiny hand resting on my shoulder, and the corners of my eyes prick with tears as I stare down at the drawing he did.

“That’s Grandma.” His little finger points to his attempted drawing of my mother. He made her purple, her favorite color. He moves his finger to the other figure. “And that’s Lucy!”

“This is great, bud.” I keep my voice steady.

“Mommy said that Grandma will go to Heaven soon.” He takes the paper from me, but I remain still. “Do you think Grandma will take the drawing and show it to Lucy?”

I swallow the sadness crawling up my throat. “Yeah. I think she will. Where is Grandma?”

“In her room with Mommy and Grandpa.”

“Why don’t we show her the drawing? Maybe it will help cheer her up,” I suggest, to which he beams. He races up the stairs, me following closely behind him at a steady pace. Even when children are in a hurry, they are still slow.

Walking down the carpeted hall, I hear murmurs of voices. A light conversation is being had that stops as soon as Carter enters. I stand in the doorway, discarding my bag in the hall.

Chloe’s eyes are red and swollen from her nonstop crying. My dad sits in a chair beside the bed, holding my mom's hand. His eyes have no tears, but he is holding them back. I can tell by the tightness of his face.

“Leo, honey.” My mother's frail voice calls out to me. “I’m so happy you made it home.”

“Me too.” I flash a warm smile and walk to her bed, sitting in the bottom corner.