From the stove, Edward said, “As long as my wife is there.”
“Ex-wife,” I told Mom.
“But you’re together again?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Glad you’re in agreement on that,” she said and might have smiled. Instead, she refocused on her tea, dipped the bag repeatedly, as if answers would appear in the dark brew.
Behind us came the scrape of a buttered knife over toast.
I sighed. “Life is confusing.”
“Very,” she said quickly enough.
Before we could get into it, Edward gestured me to move the laptop, and was placing plates before us, then orange juice, napkins, and forks. As an afterthought, he added a jar of jam. It was everything I liked, which was everything my mother liked, which was likely why it was what I liked. Which of us was he trying to please? Did it matter?
“Impressive,” I said and, feeling light-headed, sampled the eggs. When I realized that the other two were watching me, I pretended to gag.
To Margaret, Edward said, “There’s one gone. More eggs for us.”
I smiled. “Nope. It’s good. Eat up, Mom. You need fattening.” And that raised an issue that went beyond osteoporosis. Fattening wouldn’t happen in one meal. She needed someone here to make it happen. Edward and I had left Devon on a few minutes’ notice. We weren’t even prepared to stay overnight. I had to go back. I would. No way could Shanahan deny this. If necessary, I would take it to court.
First, though, I needed to know what the typical recuperation from a broken hip was. But Mom had started to eat—hungrily, in fact—and I was suddenly famished myself. So we ate. She didn’t ask about my life or about what Edward was doing in Devon, and she made no mention of Liam. It should have been awkward, but wasn’t. We were in the same room. That was enough.
After a bit, I put down my fork. “How does a hip repair work? You get the stitches out on Tuesday, but what comes after that?”
She had either been lost in thought or simply too focused on eating to keep track of her surroundings. Swallowing, she set aside her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“Rest and PT,” she finally said, and, to Edward, “Thank you. This is very good.”
“How often is PT?” I asked.
“As often as I want. It’s about flexibility. And strength.” But she was looking at Edward again. “It isn’t only the hair. You look rougher.”
“Less slick?” Edward said and slid me a smug grin.
“He’s become an innkeeper,” I told my mother.
“A what?”
“Innkeeper,” said Edward.
“Crunchy is the look,” I said.
“Crunchy,” Margaret repeated. She certainly knew the meaning of the word beyond the texture of cookies. When I was in college, crunchy was the only word Dad used to describe my friends. He had done it repeatedly, and not by way of flattery.
Lest my mother head in that direction, I steered her back. “How often do you see the doctor?”
She reached for the jam with her good hand. “After the stiches come out? I don’t know.”
Of course, she didn’t. Uber wouldn’t sit with her, making sure she asked the right questions and remembered the answers. Apparently not even Annika did, though I suspected my mother wouldn’t allow that.
She needed me.
Feeling emboldened, I said, “How long is the recuperation?”
