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“He slept right here.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I might’ve taken that a bit far.”
“Maybe.”
“But it was a good bit, right?”
“I particularly liked Fredphanie.”
She nods in triumph as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and frown at the email notification.
“Is that Zeke?” she asks, flopping down on the sofa and tugging the soft knit blanket over her legs.
“No,” I say, reading the email quickly, and then for a second time. “It’s from my bank.”
Caro frowns but doesn’t say anything as I pull up the number for my trustee. Before I can dial though, my phone rings. It’s my mother.
“Hello?”
“Faye Ellen Benington, did youquitmedical school?”
“Nice to talk to you too, Mom,” I say, shutting my bedroom door. I flop onto the perfectly made bed to my right and stare up at the ceiling I painted in the same peachy-rose color as the walls. Aly talked me into it. She said the name of the paint color—Life is a Peach—was too good to pass up.
“Faye Ellen, are you even listening to me?”
“Lovely weather we’ve been having. How about you?”
“Why did I get a phone call this morning from Ibrahim Downes-Mueller about yourIntent to Withdrawpapers from OHSU?”
I take a deep breath and decide this isn’t a conversation for lounging. I shift to my cream linen tufted desk chair.
“I don’t know why he called you. I don’t even know why OHSU would have notified him.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. And then she chuckles. Actually chuckles.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You are. I heard you laughing.”
“Oh, Faye Ellen. What were you thinking? Don’t you remember meeting with Ibrahim when you graduated from high school?”
I recall a boozy lunch at a restaurant in Midtown Manhattan where he spouted off a dozen or so stipulations about access to my trust fund. But my parents were far more interested in social chatter and keeping their glasses full and I blocked most of it out.
“Vaguely.”
“Well, perhaps you should have refreshed yourself before you dropped out of medical school.”
“Mom,” I say, blowing out slowly between my rounded lips. “Just tell me what happened.”
“You’re cut off.”
At first I don’t think I’d heard her right. But when she doesn’t clarify or further explain, my chest tightens. She can’t be that callous, can she? It’s not like she achieved anything greater than a decorative bachelor’s degree from a glorified finishing school.
