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Libby O'Rourke has a short fuse. Her mother, Mae, carries a big match. Engulfed in the never-ending life-juggling of suburbia, Libby fails to notice Mae's emerging dementia symptoms until a kitchen fire puts the problem on the front burner.
Proficient in the art of denial, Mae brushes the shattering diagnosis aside and sets her sights on a matchmaking crusade for her eldest son. After all, if her lucid days are numbered, Mae’s going to make damned sure he makes it down the aisle while she still recognizes the groom.
It’s going to take a razor wit and an iron stomach to handle Mae's diagnosis. Thankfully, just like her mother Libby has both.
She crept to the bathroom as quietly as two-hundred-year-old floor boards would allow and, on the way back, noticed the phone’s blinking message light.
“Crap.” Mae’s message taunted from the answering machine. “What to do?” she said to herself. “Check it, or go back to bed?” Years of maternally ingrained guilt won out as she pressed play.
“Hi Lib,” Mae’s recorded message played. “It’s your mother.”
“Color me surprised.” Libby groaned.
“I just got back from my visit with Dr. Cooper. You remember him, he removed Daddy’s planter’s wart.”
“TMI Mom, TMI.”
“Anyhow, he did a splendid job with my colon and said I had none of those dirty pollocks.”
“Polyps, unless you’ve got a ten-foot abstract in your small intestine.”
“You can watch now. Did you know that? They have a camera in your bum the whole time, fascinating really. Anyway, a few of my other test results were a bit off, and he wants me to see a neurologist for some silly reason. Nothing to worry about, just a little blip to check out. Anyhow, I need someone to take me for the appointment, and I was hoping you could find the time. If not, don’t worry, I’ll call your brother Sean. I’m sure he can drop anything less important than his mother.”
“Of course. He’s Jesus.” Libby’s eyes rolled.
“Take care, sweetie. Call me when you can, love to all.”
Libby replayed the message and returned to bed. Blip speculation haunted her dreams.
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