Chapter 2: The Test
Monday morning, I called Mom before work.
She didn't answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
At 10:17, my phone finally rang.
“Hi, sweetheart.””
Her voice sounded tired.
“Mom, where have you been?””
“Out.””
“Did you get the documents?””
A pause.
“Yes.””
“All of them?””
“Some.””
“And the test?””
Another pause.
“I passed.””
I smiled despite myself.
“See? I told you nobody needed to question you.””
She didn't laugh.
“Mom?””
“I hope you're right.””
I leaned back in my chair.
“What exactly was the test?””
“I told you. It's nothing.””
“You also told me the documents were nothing.””
“I didn't say that.””
“You said you couldn't tell me.””
She breathed slowly.
“Grant, there are questions I need answered before I can explain.””
“What questions?””
“I need to know who was listed on certain records.””
“Whose records?””
She didn't respond.
“Mom.””
“I'm sorry.””
“You don't have to apologize.””
“I do.””
“Why?””
“Because I should have told you years ago.””
I felt a chill.
“About what?””
Silence.
Then Mom said, “I love you.””
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
I called back.
Straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
That evening, Natalie noticed.
“What did she want?””
“She didn't want anything.””
“What did she say?””
I looked up from the kitchen table.
“Nothing.””
Natalie poured herself a glass of water.
“Then why are you staring at your phone?””
“Because she sounded strange.””
“She always sounds strange when she wants sympathy.””
I didn't answer.
Natalie sat down.
“You know what I think?””
“I probably don't.””
“I think she's trying to create a problem between us.””
I frowned.
“Why would she do that?””
“Because she knows you’ll always run to her.””
“That doesn't make sense.””
“It doesn't have to.””
Natalie leaned forward.
“She knows exactly how to manipulate you.””
Something inside me snapped.
“Don't.””
“What?””
“Don't talk about her like that.””
“She asked you for a thousand dollars.””
“And?””
“And now she's acting mysterious.””
“She was scared.””
“Of what?””
“I don't know.””
“Exactly.””
I pushed my chair back.
“I’m going to bed.””
“Grant.””
I stopped.
Natalie said quietly, “If she asks you for more money, don't give it to her.””
I turned around.
“Why?””
“Because eventually you have to choose this family.””
I looked at her.
“I have.””
She smiled faintly.
“Have you?””
I didn't answer.
The next morning, Mom's number still went unanswered.
By noon, I was worried enough to leave work early.
I drove to her apartment.
The curtains were closed.
I knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
“Mom?””
Silence.
I called her.
Her phone rang somewhere inside.
I heard it.
That was when I started pounding on the door.
“Mom!””
A neighbor opened her door.
“Everything okay?””
“I can't get in.””
“She went out yesterday morning.””
“Did she say where?””
The woman shook her head.
“No.””
I thanked her and stepped back.
Then I noticed an envelope sticking halfway out from beneath Mom's apartment door.
My heart jumped.
I crouched down.
It wasn't addressed to me.
It was a plain white envelope.
Across the front, in Mom's handwriting, were four words:
*DO NOT LOSE THIS.*
I picked it up.
Inside was a receipt.
Certified document copies.
The date was Monday.
The amount was $742.
There was also a second receipt.
A medical examination.
I read it twice.
Then I noticed the clinic's name.
It was a memory assessment center.
My mother's name was printed at the top.
I stared at it.
She hadn't been lying.
She really had taken a test to prove she was capable of making decisions.
But why?
And to whom?
I drove home with the papers in my passenger seat.
Natalie was in the living room.
She looked up.
“Where were you?””
“Mom's apartment.””
Her expression changed.
“What happened?””
“She wasn't there.””
“Maybe she went somewhere.””
“She left these.””
I placed the documents on the table.
Natalie picked them up.
She read the first receipt.
Then the second.
Her face went pale.
“What?””
“Nothing.””
“You recognize the clinic?””
“No.””
“You're lying.””
She put the paper down.
“I said I don't.””
I studied her.
There was something in her expression I had never seen before.
Fear.
Not annoyance.
Not irritation.
Fear.
“Natalie.””
“What?””
“Why are you scared?””
“I’m not.””
“You are.””
She stood.
“I have work to do.””
She walked toward the hallway.
I followed.
“Why would Mom need a memory test?””
“I don't know.””
“You just said you weren't scared.””
“I said nothing.””
“Why did you react like that?””
She turned.
“Because your mother has been acting irrationally, Grant.””
“She passed the test.””
“So?””
“So maybe she isn't the problem.””
Natalie stared at me.
“What does that mean?””
“I don't know yet.””
She folded her arms.
“You're accusing me.””
“I didn't say that.””
“You're looking at me like I did something.””
“Did you?””
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
“No.””
The answer came too quickly.
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
“Okay.””
I stepped away.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 2:13 in the morning, my phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?””
A woman's voice said, “Is this Grant Mercer?””
“Yes.””
“This is St. Vincent Medical Center.””
I sat upright.
“What happened?””
“Are you Rebecca Mercer's son?””
“Yes.””
“There’s been an emergency.””
My feet touched the floor.
“What kind of emergency?””
“Your mother collapsed earlier this morning.””
The room seemed to shrink.
“Is she alive?””
“She is.””
I exhaled.
“She has been diagnosed with a serious aortic aneurysm. The surgical team is preparing for emergency surgery.””
I couldn't speak.
“Mr. Mercer?””
“Yes.””
“We need you to come to the hospital.””
“I’m coming.””
“There is also something your mother asked us to give you.””
“What?””
“A sealed envelope.””
I froze.
“What envelope?””
“She had instructions.””
“What kind?””
The woman paused.
“She said it was to be given only to you.””
“Why?””
“I don't know.””
“Who has it?””
“An attorney is here.””
“An attorney?””
“Yes. Priya Desai.””
My heart began pounding.
“Is my mother awake?””
“She was when she arrived.””
“Can I speak to her?””
“I'm sorry. She's being prepared for surgery.””
I grabbed my jeans from the floor.
“Did she say anything?””
The nurse hesitated.
“She did.””
“What?””
“She kept asking whether you had come.””
My throat tightened.
“What else?””
“She told us there was one person who must not see the envelope.””
“Who?””
Another pause.
Then the nurse said quietly,
“Your wife.””
I stopped breathing.
“Natalie?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“I don't know.””
The line went quiet for a second.
Then the nurse added, “Mr. Mercer, your mother was very specific.””
“What did she say?””
“She said, ‘Do not let my son's wife see what is inside.’”
I looked across the bedroom.
Natalie was asleep.
Or at least I thought she was.
I grabbed my keys.
As I reached the bedroom door, I heard her voice behind me.
“Where are you going?””
I turned.
Natalie was sitting upright in bed.
Her face was pale.
“Who called you?””
I stared at her.
“The hospital.””
Her eyes widened.
“What happened?””
“Mom collapsed.””
Natalie threw off the blanket.
“Is she dead?””
The question hit me like a slap.
“No.””
She froze.
“I mean…”
“You asked if she was dead.””
“I was shocked.””
“She needs emergency surgery.””
Natalie came toward me.
“What did the hospital say?””
I remembered the nurse's warning.
I remembered Mom looking over her shoulder in the backyard.
I remembered Natalie's face when she saw the memory clinic receipt.
And suddenly, I didn't know whether I was looking at my wife…
or at the person my mother had been afraid of.
“They said an attorney is waiting for me.””
Natalie stopped.
“An attorney?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“I don't know.””
She stared at me.
“What kind of attorney?””
“Priya Desai.””
The color drained from Natalie's face.
May you like
And this time, I knew for certain.
She knew that name.
