Page 56 of How Lulu Lost Her Mind

p; I cross one leg over the other and fold my arms over my chest. “That’s still killing.”

“Call it a merciful slumber.”

In this alternate universe, Mother not only asks me to do the impossible, but she also puts me in a terrible situation. “What’s your timeline for this?”

“I don’t know.”

In this alternate universe, Mother not only asks me to do the impossible, but she also puts me in a hopeless situation. I slap at some kind of green insect on my arm. She’s serious, and I’m pissed. “Could you guess?”

“Soon,” she answers, and doesn’t seem to notice my sarcasm. “Before I forget.”

There are those words again, but they won’t make me give in to Mom’s wishes this time. No way they’re powerful enough to make me kill my mom. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I don’t want to blow up, and I attempt to reason with her even though I know it’s impossible. “Think about what you’re saying.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since that first day.”

“What if I asked you to kill me? You wouldn’t do it.” I try to reason.

“Yes, I would.”

I suck in a breath. “You’d kill me?”

“It’s not killing if you want to die.”

Oh, that’s all. I point out the obvious consequence. “I’ll go to prison for murder.”

“Oh.” Her brows draw together. “I didn’t think of that.”

Of course not.

“I can’t do it by myself.” Tears well up in her eyes. “I’ll forget.”

Exactly. I brought Mother to Louisiana so we could laugh and have fun for as long as possible and create a few final memories together. Helping her die is not a memory I want to create for myself.

She sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I guess it’s okay that you don’t want to get me the pills.”

“Thank you.” My shoulders drop with relief.

“All you gotta do is remind me,” she says as if it’s the perfect compromise.

“And just how often should I remind you?” Mom can still figure out how to shop online, but I don’t think she has the ability to research drug-assisted suicide and shop for the right pills. Even if she managed it somehow, there is no way I’m going to remind my mother to take her life. “Once a week?”

“I’ll need more reminding than that. Once or twice a day should do it.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep. Unless you think it should be more.”

“For God’s sake!”

“Don’t curse.”

“I can’t remind you to die. I love you too much.”

She turns toward me and takes my hand in both of hers. “If you love me, you’d do this one little thing.”

One little thing? I’m angry and hurt and lash out, “Ask Tony. He’s the son you never had.”

She lets go of my hand, and I can make out Rattlesnake Patty in her narrowed eyes. “You broke up with Tony.”