Beauty and the Mustache

When I was quite finished, and at a complete loss as to what to say or how to proceed, I gathered a breath and released it on a big sigh.

“When did this happen?” I asked the room, not caring who answered.

“Three months ago,” Drew responded, and he cleared his throat, his eyes flickering to Jethro’s then back to mine.

I glanced between them. “Did you know she was sick?”

“No.” Drew shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He appeared to be frustrated, and I believed him. “She didn’t tell me she was sick. She just said she didn’t want any of you to be burdened with making decisions down the road.”

“Well….” I said, finding myself dangerously close to actual tears. I sucked in another calming breath and endeavored to keep my tone open-minded and free of derision, though I wanted to slap the beard right off his face.

“It would seem,” I began, and then I stopped. I pressed my lips together, cleared my throat, and swallowed, taking a moment to steady my voice. “It would seem that you are the decider. So, Dr. Decider, please tell me what I can do to help you.”

His eyes narrowed and searched mine. He seemed confused by my response. Obviously, it sure as heck wasn’t what he’d been expecting me to say. Most likely, I guessed, he thought I was going to launch a full-scale attack with woman-hysterics, accusations, and manipulative maneuverings.

But that wasn’t how I rolled. Prolonged irrationality wasn’t in my wheelhouse. Recrimination was not my homeboy.

So we stared at each other.

I cleared my face of all expression and waited for direction. This was a ninja trait I’d perfected while interacting with egomaniac physicians. I clenched my teeth to keep from telling him what I thought he could do with his power of attorney, where he could shove it, and whether the sun shined in that particular locale.

Finally he spoke, “Your mother appointed me to this role because she didn’t want any of you to have to think about end-of-life decisions. She did this to spare you, not to hurt you.” It was obvious he was choosing his words carefully. His tone was reasonable, imploring, even gentle.

I nodded. He made sense, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

I glanced around the room. “She’s coming home today. What have you decided regarding her care?”

He grimaced, frowned, sighed. “I’m not trying to usurp your role, Ashley.” He sounded frustrated.

I glared at him again, my jaw set. I spoke slowly so I wouldn’t be tempted to scream. “And I’m not arguing with you. You have all the power in this situation. I just want to know what I can do to help.”

Jethro finally spoke up, placing a hand on my knee. “I just found out, Ashley. I had no idea either. But I trust Drew. And Momma obviously trusted him. You know how she is, not wanting to burden anybody. Drives me crazy.”

I gave my brother a small, conspiratorial smile. Jethro’s confession softened my hard edges. I covered his hand with mine and squeezed. “No point in getting twisted up in things that don’t matter. What matters is that Momma is coming home today.”

I returned my gaze to Drew. “If you’re waiting for me to freak out, that’s what my little laughing fit was. I’m over it. It’s done. Nothing I can do about this situation other than live through it. So, again, what have you all decided, and what can I do to help?”

Drew crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at me with skepticism. “We all talked a little this morning about how to handle the next few weeks, but….”

He paused when he saw my eyes widen. My blood pressure spiked, my vision turned red, yet I ignored my murderous impulses. I breathed in and out and listened with all outward appearance of calm.

“But your brothers said that you were likely the only one who had some rough idea of what to expect and how best to plan and proceed. This is assuming that you’ll be staying in Tennessee.”

I nodded, my acute hypertension gradually declining to near baseline levels. Drew was asking for my opinion. I didn’t know if it was a token olive branch or if he’d just handed me an olive orchard. Regardless, it was a step in the right direction.

“Okay, well, I think we should put her in the den. It’s downstairs, has a door, and is on the quiet side of the house. I can tell you that hospice will be providing two nurses, one to stay during the day, and one to stop in at night to monitor her condition. Regardless, I’m going to put a cot in the den and sleep in there with her.”

Drew frowned. “You’ll need sleep, good sleep. If you stay with your mother, your sleep is likely to be interrupted. How can you take care of her if you’re exhausted during the day?”

I swallowed my sharp retort that where I slept was none of his business. “Someone in the family should stay with her all the time. I don’t want her left alone.”

“The nurse will check in on her.”

“But the nurse isn’t her family.”

He narrowed his eyes at me then looked to my brother. “There are seven of you. You’ll each take a one-night shift a week.”

Before I could object, Jethro nodded and said, “We’ll make a schedule.”

I closed my eyes briefly and fought the urge to say, You boys have a gift for making schedules.

“So, you’ll be staying for the duration?” Drew pressed me. “How is this going to affect your employment in Chicago?”

His question stunned me to the point that I was bereft of words. He sounded like a father asking his daughter to justify the soundness of her decisions. He almost sounded like he cared. It was unnerving; especially since my father was the least responsible and caring man I’d ever known and had never made a sound decision in his life.

An honest, guileless response—likely because I was so taken aback by the question—tumbled from my lips. “I’m part of a union. We have insurance that covers taking time to tend to critically ill family members. They have to hold my job for three months.”

He considered this and nodded. “Of course there are other issues, like house upkeep, bill paying, groceries, incidentals, and the like.” Drew stared at me for a moment—actually, he stared through me—and I could tell he was re-tallying and considering all that would have to be done. “You should return your rental car and drive your momma’s car while you’re here. And I’ll give you access to her checking account for household expenses, but I’ll take care of the monthly bills.”

Drew’s pragmatism surprised me. I hadn’t thought of who would be paying the bills.

I nodded and stuttered, “That…that makes sense.” Because it did make sense. In fact, I was grateful. I didn’t particularly want to be the one having to think about paying bills and related logistics. I wanted to focus on Momma, on taking care of her and spending time with her.

“I also suggest we hire a house cleaner. Your brothers aren’t up to the task, and you shouldn’t be bothered with it.”

I nodded again. “O-okay,” I stammered, again surprised.

A long moment passed. At first, the atmosphere in the room grew lighter as Drew and I watched each other. But then his stare grew increasingly intense, sharp, heated. My neck began to itch. I didn’t know him well enough to guess at what he was thinking, so I sat very still and waited, trying not to blush under his obvious scrutiny.

“Right.” Jethro said, breaking the moment.

Drew blinked as if he were coming out of a daze and turned his focus to my brother.

“This plan sounds solid,” Jethro said, and he put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed, then stood and nodded like everything was settled. “I’ll tell the others how this is going to work. I can start putting together a schedule.” He looked down at me and added, “Roscoe will be here with you all day; he can help you take your rental car back, and he’ll be here when Momma arrives.”

“Okay, sounds good.” I stood as well, crossed my arms over my chest. Everything was happening so fast.

“I’m fixin’ to put my coffee in a travel mug, then we can head out.” Jethro gave Drew a nod and walked back to the kitchen.

I stared at the carpet and thought about the order of things to accomplish. Dress, eat, drive to town, drop off the rental car. I also needed to find out Elizabeth and Sandra’s arrival time. Maybe I could pick them up at the airport.

I felt the heat of Drew’s solid hand on my back just before he spoke. “I didn’t peg you for the type to surrender so easily.”

I looked up to find him standing a foot away. His gray-blue eyes ensnared mine and bored into me as though he was dually trying to figure me out and will me into submission. He’d said the words with a low intimacy that I felt in my knees and hips. The word surrender seemed to echo in the room and through my body.

The shift in the atmosphere was palatable, yet I found myself wondering if I were the only one who noticed. Was it a byproduct of my wonky, grief-induced vulnerability? Were my emotions susceptible to delusion? Was I imagining the galvanized tension between us?

I issued him a miniscule smile, hoping to convey irritation, while I tried to regain the abrupt loss of my body’s ability to regulate its temperature. I was hot, flustered, ill prepared, and emotionally unequipped to interact with fictionally handsome men speaking to me in intimate tones and staring at me like I was cake.