Bombshell

The oldest sister of an upstanding middle class dysfunctional family has a disturbing telephone conversation with her younger sister.

 

          Leslie walked into her small den that looked out over the garden.  As long as she had to call Brenda per that hysterical email Leslie received that morning, she might as well be comfortable, and the den was unequivocally her room.  Leslie had redecorated the room with colors, furniture styles, fabrics and wall art that transmitted the clear impression of an intimate feminine retreat.  Any male (and that included her husband and three sons) who took a first step into the room would stop in his tracks, do a quick about-face and immediately retreat, never again to attempt such a foolhardy maneuver.

          Placing a coaster on the small brass and glass coffee table, she set down the large crystal goblet of raspberry lemonade; one needed plenty of survival gear when talking to Brenda, whose marathon ramblings had been known to act like a sedative on Leslie.  So Leslie always made sure she had plenty to drink, a couple of magazines to flip through and a variety of pseudo-emergencies to be relayed by one of the boys after a pre-determined limit had passed.

          Leslie fluffed the silk-tasseled brocade pillows that sat on the antique fainting couch and carefully settled into its downy comfort; she slipped off her shoes and folded her legs up onto the couch.  She reached for the cordless phone and held it to her chest for a moment, rolling her eyes heavenward and muttering a little prayer.

          “Now, Lord, y’know I wanna do this about as much as I wanna run down I-75 in my birthday suit, but since nobody back there has the balls to do it, it has to be me.  I’ve got to get Brenda outta Mama’s house and into assisted livin’, or she’ll work poor Mama plumb to death.  You know this the right thing to do, but lawsy, Brenda will not.  So please help me to be patient, and y’know, it wouldn’t hurt if you made Brenda a little more agreeable, OK?”

          She began to dial the number, and then stopped.

          “Oh, yeah.  Amen.”

          She completed punching in Brenda’s number:  one ring -- two -- oh, the second ring did not finish before Brenda answered in her breathless, raspy voice, one of the casualties of her terminal illness.

          “Well, hi, Bren,” Leslie tried to sound cheerful.  “I read your email this mornin’, and you sounded real upset, hon.  What is it?”

          There was a slight pause as she listened to Brenda’s reply.

          “Uh-huh -- well, yeah, I do read the Journal on-line in the mornin’.”

          Another slight pause.

          “Yeah, I saw the obits, but nobody …”

          Pause.

          “Oh, really?  I didn’t know …”

          Slightly longer pause.

          “WHAT?!”

          Slightly longer pause.

          “Now hold on, Brenda -- you cannot be havin’ some kind of affair with your hospice nurse…”

          Slightly longer pause.

          “Well, yes, I see.  By killin’ himself yesterday, it is a moot point, but …”

          Another slight pause.

          “Hmmm…well, how…”

          A long and uncomfortable pause.

          “Now listen to me, Brenda, for just a minute.  No, you just hush now.  You need to get into a private place of your own, one of those nice assisted living places…”

          Leslie sat upright on the couch and began to tap her bare foot frenetically against the soft carpet.  Bright spots of color bloomed on her cheeks.

          “Brenda, Mama is 84 years old.  She can’t take care of you!  It’s gonna kill her!”

          “Bren…”

          “Uh-huh …  but …”

          “Well, of course, I don’t think you deserve to be sick …”

          “Brenda, you’re bein’ taken care of by the state, and they are not gonna pay for Hearthstone or the Atrium!  Be reasonable, Brenda …”

          Leslie raised herself from the couch and stood straight up.  She felt herself shaking.

          “You actually got blackballed from hospice?!”

          “You can’t come to Dallas, Brenda.  You can’t fly with that GI-normous oxygen tank on a plane.  For pity’s sake …”

          “Uh-huh …  who looks like George Clooney?”

          “Your doctor?!”

          “Lord have mercy, Brenda, are you really doin’ that?  I can’t begin to tell you how inappropriate that is and downright embarrassin’…”

          “I don’t wanna go back to Kansas.  I wanted to take a real vacation for once … “

          “All right,  ok, you stop sendin’ your damned fool doctor candy and flowers and stop acting out your creepy fantasies.  Brenda ...”

          Leslie pulled the phone away from her ear and just stared at it.

          “The crazy, freakin’ b***h hung up on me.  I wish I lived in Siberia.”

          “Tyler,” Leslie called to her oldest son, “get on your laptop and get us tickets to Kansas City, you, me and your brothers  leavin’ DFW tomorrow.  Rent us some big-a*s luxury car in KC.”

          A chorus of “Oh, Mom, I don’t wanna”s  drifted down the stairs.

          “Just do it, big boy. Wesley, you and Derek are goin’ too --  no arguments.  We are goin’ to Kansas to save Grandma’s life.  No sass, young man.  Tyler, your little girlfriend will survive.  Grandma might not.”