9. Reese
Reese
“This is ridiculous,” my mom says for the tenth time since we were taken back to a private room at the hospital. It’s been about an hour and a half, and they’ve already run a CT scan and taken blood for the full toxicology report I asked them to run.
According to her, they’ve run every other test.
“The jury is still out on that. You looked like you were about to fall over.”
“Well, you and Weston weren’t exactly making it a low-stress morning. I’m an old woman, Reese. That was a lot to deal with.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mom, you can’t fix what’s between us, okay? Why would you have him over at the house?”
“We have a standing weekly meeting,” she replies, all while refusing to make eye contact with me.
“You couldn’t have done that at his place? Or the barn?”
Now she meets my gaze, pinning me with a glare that would have me straightening when I was a kid. “That is my house, Reese Lillian Faye. I will do with it what I please.”
I move over toward the window to look outside. The sun is high in the bright sky. It’s the type of day where I’d love to be anywhere but inside. “I’m just not sure why he had to be there. Ranch hands were never a part of the business dealings anyway. Dad always kept them separate.”
“Weston is not a ranch hand.”
I turn toward her, noting the shift in her tone. “What do you mean?”
“You are my partner on this ranch, Weston.”
“Oh, Mom. Tell me you’re not in a relationship with him.” The mere thought of it makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn.
My mom pales. “Do you really think so little of me? I would never be in a romantic relationship with someone you loved, and I certainly am not looking for a younger man, or any man for that matter. Your dad was it for me. The love of my life.”
I relax, feeling that moment roll off me, even though I feel ridiculous for trying to make that connection. Truth is, I know she wouldn’t have done that. Just like I know he wouldn’t have either.
“What am I supposed to think? You called him your partner.”
“On the ranch, Reese.” She takes a deep breath.
“A few years ago, we lost quite a few calves. Our books were already struggling, and losing them put us too far in the red. The tax bill came, so I paid that, but it left me short on the mortgage. And—well—let’s just say that the bank was chomping at the bit to take control of the land. ”
My stomach twists, and I take a seat in the chair beside her bed. “Mom.”
“Weston hadn’t been back at the ranch long, and he caught me on an oversharing day right after I’d left the bank. He didn’t say much in response.”
I smirk. “He never does.”
“But I got a call from Jillian down at the bank the next day, and she told me that the loan had been paid up and then some. Half the balance was knocked from the principal. She said that normally they don’t allow anyone to make payments on a lien holder’s behalf, but Weston told her I sent him to do just that. ”
As her words sink in, I grip the side of the chair.
“He bought part of the ranch out from under you?” Anger shoves the shock aside.
Never would I have guessed Weston would do such a thing.
How could he? Is that why he’s been waiting around?
To buy this place back from my mom the moment things get too tough for her to keep up?
“Oh no, honey. Weston paid for it so I wouldn’t lose the place.
He wanted nothing in return. Didn’t even want me to know it was him.
And after I found out, I begged him to let me have paperwork drawn up.
Something official so he could be equal partners with me on this ranch.
He refused. For over a year, he dodged every question I asked him and denied my request.”
Of course he did. And for the second time, I feel like a complete idiot for making an assumption based on my own bias. “I’m assuming he eventually accepted?”
“Begrudgingly,” she replies with a laugh. “And only because I guilted him. I told him I was getting too old for some of it and wanted to just be a silent partner as much as I could be.”
My parents had me when my mom was forty-one. I know that the late start to a family was hard on them both, but I guess I never saw her being the age she is now.
She certainly doesn’t look seventy-eight.
“He finally accepted, and we had paperwork drawn up. Weston Hayes owns fifty percent of that ranch.”
Another sting of betrayal. “Why didn’t you tell me? How could you keep this from me?”
“How could I not?” she asks, her bottom lip quivering. “Sugar, you fought to leave this town behind. While I couldn’t understand it, I respected that decision. I always assumed you’d come back, though. And I could tell you all of this then.”
With my eyes closed and my heart heavy, I try to absorb everything she’s telling me.
From the fact that Weston stepped up and saved the ranch when she nearly lost it to the fact that he owns as much of it as my mom does. A permanent staple in our lives, that’s what he is now.
How am I supposed to deal with that?
The door opens, and a man wearing navy blue scrubs and a white doctor’s coat comes in. His hair is silver, and there are thick black glasses perched on his straight nose. “Mrs. Faye, how are you feeling?” he asks Mom.
“Tired.” She smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Well, I can understand why.” He hugs the tablet in his hand to his chest. “Can you tell me what medications you take?”
“No prescriptions,” she replies. “Just vitamins and supplements.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Well, we found a significant amount of benzodiazepines in your system.”
“Benzodiazepines?” I question, sure that I heard him wrong. “My mom doesn’t care for medication. It was a fight to get her to take an antibiotic when she had a sinus infection.”
The doctor shrugs. “I’m just telling you what the report said.”
“I have never taken one of those benzodia-whatevers in my life. I don’t even know what they are,” my mom snaps.
“Xanax is prescribed pretty frequently. Same with Valium or Klonopin.”
“I have never taken any of those,” my mom insists, her tone getting more and more agitated by the second.
Is this more forgetfulness? Did she get prescribed something and then forget? What other explanation is there?
“If she says she wasn’t prescribed them, then I believe her. Are you sure it couldn’t be something else? Something that might have given a false positive to those medications?” I make a mental note to call her normal doctor tomorrow and request her medical records.
He shakes his head, his gaze darting from me to my mom, then back to me again. “This is something that can be purchased by other means, too,” he says.
“Are you saying I bought drugs?” my mom screeches. “I have never done drugs in my life!” Her heart rate monitor alarm goes off, and I turn toward her, my own pulse jumping in response.
“You have to calm down.”
“This man just called me a drug addict!” she yells.
“I know. I’ll deal with it, okay?”
She glares at him. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to come here. No one believes me. They see an old woman and automatically assume I have no idea what I’m talking about. Shameful, that’s what it is.”
“I know, Mom. I’ve got this, but please calm down.”
She lies back down but continues glaring in the doctor’s direction.
With her calm—for the moment—I shift my attention back toward him.
“You say there is no risk of a false positive, but there has to be a logical explanation. So, in your professional opinion, what are some other ways these could have gotten into her system?”
“Professional,” my mom scoffs. “What a joke.”
“Mom,” I snap. A nasty headache begins to bud at the base of my spine. This is going to be a day.
She doesn’t meet my gaze, but turns her attention away from the doctor, choosing instead to stare at the window. Once more, I re-focus on the doctor in front of me, who is looking increasingly frustrated by the moment.
“Does anyone else live in the home? Is it possible she got the bottles mixed up and added some to a pill organizer by accident?”
“No, I—” I start.
“Yes, because this little old lady can’t distinguish an orange prescription bottle from a much larger supplement one,” my mom interrupts.
If I weren’t so terrified that something is seriously going on with her, then I would have laughed. What else can I do? She’s angry, my head is pounding, and we are getting nowhere with this guy.
Focus on the problem, then piece together the rest. If she weren’t prescribed these meds, then there has to be something else going on.
Because the thought that my mom—a self-taught naturopathic—would be buying pills in an alley somewhere?
It’s absolutely laughable. “What are the other side effects of this?” I ask him.
“Confusion, short-term memory loss, sleepiness, balance issues, and dizziness.” His tone is sharp, and the annoyance is written all over his face.
Well, that goes both ways, buddy. Ever heard of bedside manner?
“What can we do for a treatment?” I ask.
“Go through her house, find those pills, and dispose of them responsibly.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all that’s needed. And if your mother is truly forgetting things of this magnitude, it might be time to get her some help. We’ll get her discharge papers filled out.” With that, he turns and leaves the room.
“I did not buy drugs, Reese,” she insists. “I have not taken a prescription since those antibiotics seven years ago.”
“I believe you, Mom,” I reply with a half-hearted smile as the headache continues to build and white spots invade my vision.
While stress headaches are a regular occurrence in my life, it’s been a month since my last migraine attack.
But it is starting to feel like that streak is coming to a painful ending.
“We’ll get home and find out what’s going on, okay? I promise.”