Say Yes to the Death by Susan McBride

suggested. “Besides”—­she clicked tongue against teeth—­“I can’t imagine anyone believes anything they see on TV these days. Even the news has gone tabloid. It’s all sordid crimes and scandal.” She sighed. “How I miss Walter Cronkite.”
    â€œThe public is fickle, and the Internet’s pretty much a web of misinformation,” I said, because it was the truth. What seemed like real news on Monday could be exposed as a lie on Tuesday. I’d designed Web sites for hardworking nonprofits that reaped steady donations until one piece of bad press—­often an unsubstantiated story, review, or tweet on the wonderful World Wide Web—­could dry up the well in a snap.
    â€œIt’s a shame,” Cissy said, shaking her head. “It’s as though there’s no dignity in anything anymore.”
    Since I couldn’t disagree with her there, we both got quiet. In fact, neither of us said another word as the Lexus rolled north. It wasn’t until we’d exited the Tollway, driven along Preston Road for a spell, and Cissy had pulled into the parking lot of my condo complex, that she opened her mouth again.
    â€œYou know what, Andrea? You’re right,” she said, putting the car in park and letting the engine idle as I unhooked my seat belt.
    â€œI am?” I hesitated before opening the door. “About what?”
    She nudged the bridge of her Jackie O sunglasses and sucked in her cheeks before she replied, “I don’t think I want to hire Olivia to plan your wedding after all. She’s too unpredictable, and I don’t want to risk her mucking up your big day. So after you return that god-­awful dress tomorrow, we’ll wash our hands of her.”
    Hallelujah! My mother had seen the light!
    â€œDo come by the house in the morning once you’ve dispensed with the dress,” she told me. “It’s the perfect opportunity for some girl time with Stephen away. We’ll have lots of time to chat.”
    â€œYou want to hang out?” I asked, because my mother and I didn’t usually chill together. There was generally an ulterior motive behind our get-­togethers, like her calf-­roping me into Penny’s wedding. “But it’s Sunday, won’t you be at church?”
    â€œI think God would forgive me for missing a sermon if it was for a good reason.” She shot me a grin like she had something up her sleeve.
    â€œUm, I’m not sure I can make it,” I murmured, not wanting to miss pancakes with Malone. “Maybe another time?”
    As I waited for her response, I grabbed the borrowed shoes from the floor mat. Before I slid out of the Lexus, I took my ChapStick and Life Savers out of Mother’s sparkly Judith Leiber bag and left the bejeweled clutch on the seat along with the torn Carolina Herrera dress and the Spanx. The Underpants from Hell belonged to her, too, I figured, since she’d bought them, and I definitely didn’t want to keep them. I would never wear them again. She could burn them both for all I cared.
    â€œâ€˜Bye, Mother—­” I started to say, but she wasn’t finished.
    â€œAndrea, please!” she begged. “Olivia’s office is just around the corner. I insist you drop by when you’re through with her.” She had her chin up and her jaw firmly set like she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I’ll grab some bear claws at Starbucks and we can confab over coffee.”
    I didn’t drink coffee. But that was beside the point.
    â€œWhy do we need to confab all of a sudden?” I asked as I planted my feet on the asphalt and stood up. “What’s so important? Are you dying?” I asked facetiously, but suddenly I felt a bit worried. She had been acting pretty weird.
    The window whirred as she opened it. I shut the door and ducked down to hear her answer.
    â€œAm I dyin’?”