“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath with a smile. I’m going to have some apologizing to do later if my mom keeps this up.
“I like them,” Harper insists as she sifts through the puzzle pieces on the table. “My aunt used to have one.”
“She did?” I ask, and Harper nods.
“Yep. A parakeet,” she answers.
“I love parakeets. Cheeky little birds,” Mom smiles. “What was its name?”
“Mr. Mustard,” she answers, and I perk up a little.
“I think I remember that. She used to drink Dr. Pepper by the case,” I say.
“The parakeet?” Mom asks.
“No,” Harper giggles. “My aunt.”
We all laugh and talk about birds and soda and how Mom liked 7-Up best, but all they have at the home is Sprite, which is an offense. I tell her that I can bring 7-Up the next time I visit, and she tells me not to bother, but I know she wants me to so I will anyway.
We find the missing bird beak along with a few pieces to one of the other birds in the cage.
“Now he has a friend,” Harper says, and Mom smiles. It makes me smile. Her eyes are growing weary, and I know that look. She’s getting tired, and when she gets tired, things get hard.
“Well, Mom, we need to get back to work,” I say, standing up. Harper joins me.
“Of course, of course. Don’t let me keep you from your lives,”
“Mom,” I start.
“It was lovely seeing you, Mrs. Levine,” Harper says.
“Good Lord, dear! Call me Connie. I’m nobody’s Mrs., anymore.” Her words are full of sass, but her eyes are sad, and my heart lurches in my chest. But then she turns and holds up her hands.
“Wait. I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
Mom gets up and slowly walks over to her nightstand, which is decorated with a small lamp and a framed photo of our family. She grabs a tin off the table and brings it back over to us. “Take these,” she says, handing Harper the container.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Drugs,” she says flatly, then rolls her eyes. “Cookies, Ash. Good Lord. They’re chocolate chip cookies.”
I sigh, and Harper laughs. I pop the tin open and, sure enough, it’s loaded with chocolate chip cookies.
“Where did you get them?” I ask.
“Arthur,” she answers, sitting down on the bed.
“Who’s Arthur?” I ask.
“He’s this old coot down the hall. He’s been here a little longer than I have, and ever since I got here, he’s been sweet on me.”
I arch an eyebrow and laugh.
“You think it’s funny, but I’ve about had it with the old man. He wears argyle. Every day.”
“What’s wrong with argyle?” I ask.
“Nothing. Unless you wear it every single day. Sweaters. Vests. Socks. I wouldn’t be surprised if his knickers were argyle too. He’s a nice man, but he brings me sweets almost every day. I don’t even know where he’s getting them from. His granddaughter, I think.”
