“Momma, this is Walker,” I say, attempting politeness. “Walker, this is my mom, Linda. And to answer your question, we were… out and about. Came straight here together.”
“I see.” She opens the screen door. “Suit yourself.”
The smell of the place hits me immediately: cigarette smoke embedded in the carpet, the artificial lavender air freshener attempting and failing to cover it. There's a path worn into the carpet between the chair and the bathroom, pale against the darker pile, years of the same route.
The TV tray beside Momma's chair holds a half-eaten sleeve of crackers, three prescription bottles, a church bulletin from two Sundays ago, and soda cup doubling as an ashtray. The sink is piled with overflowing dishes and the counters are sticky.
The overwhelming guilt hits me.
At the same time I’ve been living my best life, having the most beautiful summer I could hardly have dreamed of, my mother has been living like this.
And it’s only been a week since I’ve been here to check on her. What happens when I move, and I can’t run at the drop of a hat to fix things?
I put the worry away to deal with later.
For now, I can fix this problem.
The machine isn't complicated. It’s probably just a loose connection at the back, the kind of thing that takes thirty seconds once you know what you're looking for. I've fixed it before.
I keep glancing at Walker taking it all in and I wait for something to shift in his face. Judgment or disdain or any of the the things I’d expect, but it doesn't come.
He just moves the heavy table aside without being asked and rolls up his sleeves to fix whatever needs fixing.
“Let me do that for you, darlin’,” he says.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
I crouch behind the table and reseat the connector.
Momma just observes it all from her chair by the window, watching him the way she watches anything new that comes into her space, like someone who’s been surprised before and didn't enjoy it.
This time is no exception.
“You're taller than you look on TV,” she tells him.
“I get that a lot,” Walker says.
“Sadie said you were handsome.” She looks him up and down. “A haircut wouldn’t kill you. Or a shave, for that matter.”
Walker’s lips twitch. “Noted.”
“Momma, can you not insult the man doing us a favor, please?”
“I don’t see him doing anything useful.”
“He gave me a ride here,” I remind her.
Momma doesn’t say it aloud, but I know that look in her eyes. She’s silently saying,yeah? In exchange for what?
But all she says is, “I’m allowed to have opinions.”
“Your daughter has lots of opinions too,” Walker interjects, a warm, teasing glimmer in his eyes. “And she’s just as generous about sharing them with me.”
I raise an eyebrow.Smooth,I mouth at him, and he winks.
Then Momma shifts in the chair and I see it: the slight labor in her breathing, the way her hand goes to her chest.
“How long have you been short of breath?” I ask.
