Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Her sallow expression is lit with joy that I’d never dream of stealing away from her.
“Of course.” I can’t imagine Campbell would come here for my sake, but she adores my mother.
I’ve yet to tell the Wakemonts about Mom’s prognosis. Perhaps I should’ve said something this time, but every time I thought about it, I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words “my mother is dying.”
I couldn’t give that statement oxygen.
When Campbell was here last month, I told her my mother was on a girls’ trip in St Barths, and I implied that I was going to the office when I was really spending my workday at my mother’s bedside at the hospital.
“How is our blushing bride these days? Is she getting excited? I bet her dress is gorgeous. I can’t wait to see it.” My mother clasps her hands. “She’s going to be stunning, I just know it.”
I don’t tell her about the black mourning dress Campbell wanted.
Or the funeral flowers.
As far as my mother is concerned, Campbell and I made peace with the arrangement years ago and are in the throes of a budding and blossoming romance. I’ve become a professional at honing and perfecting this illusion where my mother is concerned, but only because I know how much it means to her.
To this day, she’s still clueless about the mean letters I used to send to Campbell. I’d always write a nice one for her to read first, then I’d swap it out before mailing it. If Mom ever knew the things I said to my future wife, she’d be heartbroken. And while I only meant to send a few mean letters at first—convinced I could somehow dissuade Campbell from marrying me—the whole thing took on a life of its own. Once I started, I couldn’t stop—especially as my mom battled a mystery illness.
I was angry.
And I expressed that anger the only way I knew how—with words.
But as we move closer to Mom’s final days, continuing this illusion is paramount.
The only thing that matters to me is that she dies with a smile on her face and the peace that comes with believing her son will be loved and have a happy life filled with meaning, purpose, and babies.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am that this day is finally going to be here.” She places her cold palm over my hand, her crinkled gaze watering. “The Wakemonts are wonderful people, and your father and I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect partner for you. Campbell’s going to be a phenomenal wife and the best mother to your children.”
“I have no doubt.” The lies come easier now, the more I feed into them.
I tell her about how Campbell is dealing with the preparations, how we discuss everything together, make plans, choose patterns and colors, argue over little details... it's a reality I'm creating just for my mom, a separate universe where Campbell and I are just another ordinary couple in love, excited for our big day.
Years ago, I once asked my parents why they arranged us in the first place. It boiled down to the fact that over half of all marriages don’t last, people in our circles are often targeted because of money, and pre-nups aren’t always ironclad. They were worried I’d choose wrong and our family would lose a significant amount of the things they’d worked so hard to achieve. My father viewed marriages as business deals—insisting the best partnerships happened when both parties go into it with eyes wide open and their signatures on the dotted lines.
“You hungry?” I change the subject this time. “You look hungry. I can order that soup you like—the lobster bisque from Chown’s?”
Mom swats at me. “I ate about an hour ago, but even if I were still hungry, I’m perfectly capable of ordering my own soup, my love.”
She may be wasting away physically, but her faculties are all still there.
She’ll be stubborn as hell until she takes her last breath.
I should know that by now.
“Did you check out the fountain in front?” Mom changes the subject. “The landscapers just redid the flowers and I think it looks stupendous. Nice and bright and cheerful. First thing people see when they pull up.”
I must have missed that when I arrived. Guess my mind was on other things …
“I noticed,” I say. “Did you choose the plants or did they?”
She bats her hand. “They know what I like. I told them to surprise me.”
Standing here pretending like everything is normal sends a tightness to my chest, but I do it anyway. Never mind that I’m chomping at the bit to ask how doctor’s visit went while I was away. While I’d prefer to be there with her, she refuses. She wants me to focus on the wedding and not her illness, which has already robbed so much of my life anyway—her words, not mine.