“I know that,” she whispered, not unkindly. Her eyes cleared as reality registered. But clouds remained. “Why?”
“I heard you’d fallen. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” she said but didn’t move.
“Are you in pain?”
“I thought you were my physical therapist.”
“What time does she come?”
“Two. What time is it now?”
I pushed at the sleeve of my parka to free my watch. “Ten.”
Appearing surprised by that, she made to get up. When she fell back, I slipped an arm under her shoulders to help her sit. My mother had always been admirably slim, but now, through the sweater, I felt skin and bones.
One didn’t turn to skin and bones in a single week, which was how long it had been since her fall. Nuh-uh. This had been a while coming. Like five years? For a split second, I blamed myself. If it hadn’t been for the accident, those years would have been happy.
Or not,I could hear Edward saying.Or not,I could hear Kevin saying.Or not,even Cornelia would have said if I ever dared tell her the truth.Life happened,they would say, and maybe they were right. If it hadn’t been one thing, it might have been another.
“My walker,” Mom said, eye-pointing at the thing that stood between the sofa and the hearth.
“I’ll help you walk.” I slipped off my coat and tossed it aside. “Where do you want to go?”
“The walker is fine.”
“I want to help. Are you hungry? Do you need to take a pill? Go to the bathroom?”
“They want me using the walker,” she insisted.
It was a test of wills, I realized, and while hugs and kisses, even tears might have been nice, challenging me over a walker was better than,Leave my house right now, you murderer.
Gently, I said, “The walker is fine if you’re alone, Mom. If the point is having backup when you put weight on your hip, I’m like a walker. Just tell me where you want to go.”
She stared for an uncertain moment before conceding. “The bathroom.”
I felt absurdly victorious when she let me help her up. Determining where to hold and how was awkward at first, but once we found it, we were good. She used to be two inches taller than me—literally five-eight to my five-six—and now we were closer, though, in fairness, she was neither standing straight nor wearing shoes. Her weight was negligible. She actually bore most of it herself, using me largely for balance.
This was a good sign. A person who was seriously depressed didn’t do pride.
She let me guide her into the small lav, but once inside, she used her casted arm to nudge me out and close the door.
I waited for the thud of falling, but only heard normal bathroom sounds. Meanwhile, Edward was in the kitchen. The fridge door opened. I heard the crinkle of tinfoil as he checked packages there before closing the door. There were more tinfoil sounds from the counter. One cabinet opened and shut, then another.
He ran the water, filled the kettle, and lit the gas with atickand awhoosh.All were familiar sounds, but of my mother’s habitual doing, not Edward’s. He and I had never used a kettle. A Keurig, Nespresso, or Instant Hot—yes. But not a kettle. I might have been fascinated by what he was doing and why, if I wasn’t suddenly concerned with the silence in the bathroom.
“Mom?” I called against the wood.
She opened the door only enough to hold up her casted wrist. “Makes things harder,” she said and set to washing her hands.
When she was done, I returned my arm to her waist. “I’d like tea. You?”
Her answer was a soft snort. Of course, she’d like tea.
“Are you in pain?” I asked as we approached the kitchen table. Something about the room was different, but not the table. It was the same one I’d grown up at, carried the same nicks and scratches on its aged oak face. That face now also held a laptop whose screen saver was emitting starbursts of color, suggesting fairly recent use.
“Some,” she said, sounding vague. With a hand on either chair arm, she lowered herself, but it was a minute of gingerly shifts before she found the best spot.
