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"Sorry I'm late," Dick announces as he slides into the booth next to Lola. His eyes are weary, his suit rumpled from a day's work.
"Traffic?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Damn 95 was like a parking lot today," he grumbles, waving over a waiter for a drink.
"Hey, guys," Jenny chimes in, only moments behind him, her presence like a cool breeze. She's got that way about her, easing tension without saying a word.
"Jenny," Lola says, brightening a little, and they share an affectionate peck on the cheek.
"Everyone's here. So, Tony," Dick says, leaning forward, elbows on the table, "What's going on with Mom?"
I take a deep breath and brace myself for the heaviness about to settle on us. I glance at each of them, their faces a mix of concern and fatigue, a mirror of my own feelings. It's time to dive into deeper waters.Here we go.
"Mom's pain is . . . it's beyond words now," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "The meds barely touch the edges of her agony." The image of our mother, curled on her side, wincing with even the softest whisper of fabric against her skin, fills my mind. My siblings are silent, their eyes locked onto mine, searching for a sliver of hope I'm not certain I can give.
"She can't eat; she hardly speaks. Every breath is a battle." My throat tightens as I recall the rattling gasps that echo through Mom's room at night, a stark contrast to the stillness of the dark. I watch Lola's hand creep to her mouth, her eyes glistening in the low light of the restaurant.
Dick leans back, his fingers pressing into his forehead. "So, what are we looking at? What are you saying, T?" His voice is rough, strained.
"Time isn't something we have much of," I admit, the weight of the truth like a lead vest. "But there's an offer on the table—an option."
"An option?" Jenny tilts her head, ever the peacemaker, trying to keep her voice neutral.
"Liam has offered to transport Mom to a clinic in Switzerland. They specialize in end-stage cases . . . some sort of new therapy that has gained a lot of critical acclaim." I rush out the words before they can strangle me.
"Switzerland?" Dick's brow furrows, disbelief etched across his features. "Liam? You mean Liam as in— Liam, the man who killed our father?"
“Noooooo.” Jenny lets out a low-range, high-intensity, blood-curdling howl like someone has taken a dagger to her innards.
"How do you plan on telling Mom about this?" Lola's voice breaks, her hands shaking as she reaches for her napkin, dabbing at the corner of her eyes.
"Mom can never hear of this. This is preposterous. How can you even think this could work, Tony? What were you thinking?" Dick's fume rolls over the table like a storm surge, his anger palpable.
Jenny's gaze pierces through me. "When it comes to Liam, Tony never thinks straight."
I clench my jaw, fighting the swirling mix of guilt and desperation. They need to understand. "It is easy for you to sit there and act all hurt and all. You are not there day in and day out, listening to Mom cry in agony. I'm thinking about Mom— what are you all thinking of? Yourselves?"
"But accepting his help, Tony . . . " Lola's voice trails off, the conflict written all over her face.
"Is our conflict worth more than easing Mom's suffering?" I ask, the question hanging heavy between us.
The glow of the table lamp throws shadows across Dick's face, deepening the lines of his scowl. "We know Mom is in pain," he says, voice tight as a drum. "That doesn't mean we embrace the devil."
"Mom’s in trouble, you guys, and the devil is the only one offering help right now," I reply, my knuckles white around my water glass. I see Jenny flinch from across the table, her fork clattering against the plate.
"Are you listening to yourself?" Jenny's eyes are wide, incredulous. "This is Liam we're talking about. You think Dad would approve?"
"Would Dad approve of Mom suffering?" The question leaps out of me, harsher than intended. Lola's hand reaches out, trembling as if she might grasp the words and stuff them back into my mouth.
"Tony, this isn't just about relief," Lola whispers, a tear sneaking down her cheek. "It's about integrity, about—"
"Integrity?" I cut her off. "Mom gasps for each breath while we talk about integrity?" I push back from the table, standing to pace. Each step echoes my racing heart.
"Integrity doesn't ease pain," I continue, turning to face them, my gaze pleading for understanding. "It won't hold her hand through the night sweats or the screams when the meds wear off too soon."
"Stop it, Tony!" Dick slams his palm onto the table, rattling the silverware. "Stop painting hell just to sell usyourdeal with the devil!"
"Isn't that what we're already living in? Hell?" My own voice surprises me, raw, desperate. I lock eyes with each sibling in turn, my plea silent but screaming.
