14. Cheer Up! It’s Pancake Time #2
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic, and the white lights do nothing to counteract the harsh, sterile feel of the space.
Mom looks small in the bed, swallowed by too-white sheets, but she’s still putting on a show.
Arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending like she’s fine.
Except that someone fine doesn’t collapse on their way to the bath.
At least she still had her phone on her.
“You really didn’t have to stay,” she complains.
“Yeah, well, I don’t trust you not to walk out of here the second I turn my back.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, which is in itself another red flag.
Logan telling me how Mom seemed off recently is a brutal reminder of the fact that I’ve been distracted. So absorbed in my own bullshit that I ignored the signs that something wasn’t right. I see them now, though. Clearly.
“Tell me you didn’t tattle to your brother, at least.”
“Yes, I told Logan.” I ignore the disapproving sound she makes. I’ve asked her in a variety of different ways what’s going on, but she keeps saying everything’s fine. Load of bullshit, that is. “He’s alone with the kids, so I told him to stay home.”
“Good, good. Primrose is in Mayfield this weekend?”
I nod distractedly. Where the hell is the doctor? It’s been hours since her twisted ankle was examined and bandaged.
“Did the two of you talk?”
“Talk?” I ask. “About what?”
“You know. Talk . Properly, like brothers.”
Oh. She means are we still pretending everything’s okay? “Mostly about the kids. I don’t think Logan is interested in much else from me.”
“You two just need to?—”
“Talk, I get it. But I can’t make him, Ma. He’ll have to decide for himself when he’s ready.” She mumbles something about us being stubborn, and I cock my head to one side. “Don’t you think it’s ironic you’d say that when you’re not being open with your sons?”
“Oh, that’s preposterous, Aaron. You?—”
A knock at the door makes me turn as the doctor steps in, a clipboard tucked under his arm. He’s younger than me, with sharp eyes that scan the room.
“Mrs. Coleman,” he greets. “How are you feeling?”
Mom waves him off. “Fine. Really, I’m good to go home.”
I let out a quiet scoff, and she flicks me a look.
The doctor doesn’t seem convinced either. He steps closer, flipping through his notes. “We ran your tests, and while everything looks stable, I want to go over a few things.” He pauses. “Any dizziness? Loss of balance?”
She hesitates. “Maybe a little.”
“Any stiffness or trouble with coordination?”
Her fingers twitch where they rest on the blanket, just barely. It’s small, almost nothing. But it’s not nothing.
The doctor notices too. “Mrs. Coleman, I’ll need you to be more forthcoming about your symptoms moving forward. Who’s treating you for your condition?”
“Her what ?” I cut in.
Silence.
Did he say her “condition”? Mom doesn’t have a condition—the woman is healthier than me and Logan put together. But she doesn’t look at me when I stare at her, waiting for an explanation, and once I direct my panicked gaze at the doctor, he clears his throat.
“I’ll give you both a moment,” he says. “Be back shortly.”
The door clicks shut and I stare at her, waiting, while my heart pounds in my ears. She’s supposed to say something, to explain, to tell me this is a misunderstanding.
But she doesn’t.
“What the hell was that?” My voice is rough, my chest tight. “What ‘condition’?”
“Aaron, it’s nothing. I have some vertigo, and?—”
“No.” I press my fingers against my eyelids. “No, enough bullshit. Enough lying— enough .”
She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, something in her face shifts, like she’s finally giving up the fight. “I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s.”
For a second, I can’t move. Can’t think . Her words echo in my thoughts but make no sense.
Parkinson’s? I scramble for every piece of information I know about it.
It’s a degenerative disease. No cure. It starts with tremors, stiffness, trouble with movement, and gets worse over time.
I think of Michael J. Fox and the therapist from that show Shrinking I binged this past winter.
Medication can help, but it doesn’t stop it from chipping away at a person’s independence.
There’s physical therapy, lifestyle changes, ways to manage symptoms, but in the end. ..it only goes in one direction.
And she’s been dealing with this alone.
“How long?” I croak.
Her throat bobs. “A little over a year.”
A year.
A whole fucking year .
I push to my feet, pacing a tight line next to the bed. “And you didn’t think to tell me ?”
“You have enough on your plate, Aaron.”
I let out a bitter laugh, dragging my hands through my hair. “Are you kidding me? Mom, you’ve been—what? Just pretending everything’s fine? Letting me think this was nothing?” I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. “What about Darren? Does he know? And Logan—did you tell him about this?”
Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away. “I didn’t want all of you to look at me like that.”
Holy crap, she hasn’t told a single soul.
“Look at you like what?” I shout.
“Like I’m slipping away. Like I’m not me anymore,” she says in a small voice.
I swallow against the agony that’s making my chest feel like a prison, my anger deflating in an instant.
I hate that she’s kept this a secret, but I try to remind myself that she’s not just my and Logan’s mom, not just Darren’s wife either.
She’s the one who’s going through this, the one with the condition .
I squeeze her hand and nod, trying to reassure her without words. The second I open my mouth, I’ll start bawling. I can feel it.
Mom’s sick, and that’s terrifying.
But the scarier thing?
Mom’s the healthiest she’ll ever be again.