“She’s here!”Ellis, my oldest brother but still younger than me by four years, bellowed over his shoulder before engulfing me in a bear hug. “How’s my favorite sister?”
“I’m your only sister, jackass,” I said, my voice muffled by his flannel shirt as I returned the hug.
“Good thing. I’m not sure you could earn the title fair and square.”
I swatted his shoulder and he laughed, releasing me. Immediately, I was pounced on by the rest of the pack, lifted off the ground, and passed around from one brother to the next while I laughed and hollered.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked when they finally set me back on solid ground.
“In the kitchen,” Cole said, which is about what I expected, so I was already heading in that direction. “Grams is, too,” he added apologetically. “Dad is setting the table.”
The second I walked into the kitchen I knew Mom had stretched the truth. It wasnota good day. She was rubbing her hands, a telltale sign that they ached, and a ruddy butterfly bloomed across her nose and cheeks.
“Mom,” I admonished.
She turned, beaming when she saw me. “Hi, honey. Mom, Chloe is here,” she added before pulling me into a gentle hug.
“We need more carrots,” Grams said, eyeballing the pile of vegetables on the cutting board.
Mom gave me a look somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “We have plenty of carrots.”
“What are we making?” I asked, surveying the kitchen. From the smell of it, I was sure there was a chicken in the oven. Grams was chopping vegetables—carrots, onions, and small red potatoes—to throw in with it. Mom, paring knife in hand, was overseeing another pile of potatoes. I took the knife from her and ushered her to the breakfast table. “Go sit down, Mom.”
She sat with a relieved sigh that made my chest pull tight. “Itstartedas a good day.”
“How is it now?” I asked.
“Manageable.” When I gave her a suspicious look, she smiled. “Really and truly, Chloe. I’m not playing the martyr here, I promise. I know that the best way to have more good days is to take care of myself on the bad days. My joints ache a bit, that’s all.”
I studied at her closely, wanting to verify that for myself. Since she had been diagnosed with lupus several years ago, I had learned all the symptoms and what to look for. I didn’t see a rash other than the one on her face. On good days, Mom could do almost anything. On bad days, exhaustion and headaches kept her in bed with the lights out.
“Tell her, Grams,” Mom said with exasperated fondness. Grams didn’t tell me anything, but I never expected her to. Apparently, Mom didn’t either, because she barely paused before continuing, “My hands and knees are swollen, which makes cooking hard. That’s all.”
“All right,” I relented. “What are we having?” I asked again.
“Nothing fancy. The chickens are in the oven. I made dinner rolls last night, thankfully. I was starting in on the scalloped potatoes when you got here. Think you can finish up for me?”
Only my mother would describe a full roast chicken dinner for nearly a dozen people asnothing fancy. I shook my head, smiling.
“Of course I can do the potatoes,” I said. I knew how to cook. I didn’tlikeit, but I could get it done.
I got to work slicing the potatoes paper-thin. Scalloped potatoes was one of my favorite dishes, and I suspected Mom had planned them just for me. It was one of those foods that was too labor intensive for me to ever make for myself—although now, of course, that was exactly what I was doing.
“Tell me about work,” Mom said. “I want to hear everything. How’s work going?”
“It’s great,” I said. “Hard, but rewarding, you know? I’m starting to research options for opening my own telehealth clinic next summer after I’m fully certified. One of the issues with mental health services in rural communities is that we all know each other. There’s already a stigma around going to therapy and convincing someone to share their problems and secrets with a person who knows everyone in your life is a hard sell. I?—”
Grams turned on the radio. “You don’t mind if I listen to my program, do you, Angie? It’s nice to have it on in the background while we’re cooking.”
Mom blinked. Her gaze darted briefly to me before faltering. “Sure, Mom.”
The doorbell rang and Grams set down her knife. “I’ll get that.”
Mom’s gaze followed her out, then she turned to me. “Don’t mind her, Chloe. She’ll come around.”
I snorted. Mom had been saying that for eight years now.
Bracing on the table, Mom rose slowly to her feet. “Let’s go greet your father’s guests, all right?”
