She smacks me on the arm. “Just turn the show back on.”
I laugh again and let it drop for now, then we all watch the season finale ofSunsets and Sabotage. Paige and Mom are like sports commentators, the way they constantly talk over the show and make guesses on who they think will win or which playeris the most annoying. I watched one of the beginning episodes of this season weeks ago with Paige and Missy, but Paige blazes through this show as fast as she does a can of barbeque Pringles. I can only recognize one or two contestants, so my investment in the players is minimal.
At one point, I pull on my mom’s sleeve and drag one of her hands into mine. I’m usually pretty consistent about giving her hand massages for her neuropathy, but lately, I’ve been working longer hours than usual and rarely make it home before she’s in bed.
I start pulling on each finger to help improve her blood circulation. I’m no masseuse, but YouTube is a pretty good teacher. After a while, I switch things up and try a new technique I saw online a week or so ago. I weave two of my fingers between hers, giving me the right angle to really work through her hand.
“Ow.” Mom pulls her hand from mine. “That hurts.”
“Sorry, I’ll be more gentle.”
“I think you might have bruised me.” She flexes her hand.
I didn’t think it wasthathard.
“Maybe you should practice on Paige first, then when you’ve got it down, you can try on me again,” Mom says.
Practice on Paige?I narrow my eyes at my mom. “I promise I’ll go softer.”
“I have a big blanket project I have to do tomorrow, and I’d rather not risk starting with aching hands.” She leans forward. “You don’t mind, right, Paige?”
Paige looks at me with all the vitality of a ghost. “Uh, sure.”
“Okay.” Mom takes my hand and places it over Paige’s as if I’m physically incapable of doing that myself.
“I got it, Mom.”
Paige is stiff as a board as I take her hand between mine. I force myself to think medical thoughts.I’m improving Paige’s blood circulation.That’s all this is. Medical. Anything to distractmy brain from realizing that my fingers are kneading themselves into Paige’s fingers.
“No, no. Try the new technique,” Mom says, peering at us from over my shoulder.
I stare back at my mom for several long moments. Aren’t mothers supposed to have good intuition about their kids being in danger?
Meanwhile, Paige’s eyes are fixed on the TV like she’s being brainwashed and can’t look away.
Reluctantly, I weave two of my fingers between Paige’s just as I did with my mom, but this time, my fingers tingle against Paige’s skin.
An ad comes on, and my mom pops off the couch. “I’m going to go make some popcorn.”
Then Paige and I are alone. On the couch. Fingers entwined.
Medical thoughts.
Medical thoughts.
Medical thoughts.
“Ow.” Paige’s hand coils within mine. “That really does hurt.”
“Baby,” I tease.
She presses her fingers into mine, mimicking my previous movement.
It isn’t pleasant. “Ouch.”
“See?”
“Fine. I’ll go lighter.” I spread the back of her hand against my knee and bring only my pointer finger to the center of her palm, where I make a point of making “light” circles around her hand. “Better?”
