The whistle of the kettle snapped me back into reality. I swirled a dollop of honey into the bottom of a mug, dropped a Constant Comment tea bag in, and covered it all with boiling hot water. I decided to call Leslie first and cook supper later. It was still early.

She answered on the third ring. Of course.

“Hey,” I said. “You busy?”

“Hey, Holly. No,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“Well, here’s the bad news. Momma’s got some itty-bitty tumors in her liver and her pancreas.”

“What? Oh, no!”

“Wait, hang on. Don’t get upset. The doctors think that whatever she’s got is benign, but they want to monitor her. So she’s still in the hospital because they want to do some more tests.”

“Good grief! How’d she handle the news? Is she hysterical?”

“There was a moment of rebellion.”

“Meaning?”

“She decided she was leaving and ripped the IV out of her hand.”

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God. What happened?”

“They bribed her to stay with chocolate pudding. Trust me, you don’t want the details. It was too stupid.”

“I’m sure. So, what do you think? Do you think she’s dying?”

“Not a chance. I think the situation is serious but not dire. I mean, the doctors talked about some new treatment but said it was for down the road and only if necessary.”

“Well, that makes me feel slightly better. I don’t have to panic and run home?”

“Definitely not. There will be plenty of time to panic. But it’s not now.”

“I didn’t order flowers yet. Should I wait?”

“Up to you. She’ll probably come home tomorrow.”

“Maybe I’ll just send her a card.”

“Totally your call.”

We chatted about Momma for a few more minutes and hung up. I promised to call her if anything changed. As always, she didn’t ask about my life. I didn’t tell her I got a job because she would’ve said icing cakes at Publix was déclassé (which it was not) as though we grew up in the White House. But she came to be self-absorbed honestly, taking after our mother in so many ways. By tomorrow that card would become a phone call. I knew her. She didn’t go out of her way for anyone, not even her own mother.

I drained my cup of tea and began digging around in the drawer for a corkscrew, thinking I’d have a glass of wine while I cooked like they did on fancy television programs like Julia Child’s. Of course, there was no corkscrew to be found. Then it dawned on me that Archie probably had one. I’d just go next door and borrow it. He wouldn’t mind.