“No, don’t worry. It’s no big deal. I’m getting better.”
His father nods slowly. “Glad to hear it.” He turns back to the weather. A front is moving through the Panhandle. The weather girl is explaining it with a map and his father is watching like it’s the most important broadcast in history.
A woman appears from the kitchen. Small. Silver-streaked hair pulled back in a clip. Blue eyes that are Mickey’s eyes, the same shade, the same steadiness, except hers have lines around them from years of holding things together while things fell apart. When she sees Mickey, she gives him a quick scan.
“You’re looking better, sweetheart,” she says. She puts her hand on his cheek. Then she looks past him at me.
I’m standing behind his wheelchair and I’m suddenly, acutely aware that this is Mickey’s mother. She’s been waiting to meet me and I’ve never in my life wanted to make a good impression more than I want to make one right now.
“Mama,” Mickey says. “This is my boyfriend, Benji.”
She looks at me. The same scan she gave Mickey, head to toe, except hers takes slightly longer. I hold still for it because this woman has earned the right to take a long look.
“You’re the one who put the air under him,” she says.
“Ma’am, I don’t know…”
“I heard it in his voice,” she explains. “Weeks ago. He sounded different after you started coming around. Lighter and better. I told him on the phone and he didn’t know what Imeant but I did.” She reaches forward and takes my free hand in both of hers. Her hands are small and the grip is strong. “Thank you for taking care of my boy.”
“He takes care of me too,” I say. Mickey’s mother is holding my hand and I’m about to cry.
“He’s a good one. Always was.” She lets go of my hand and points at the cooler. “Is that Sheila’s?”
“Brisket and ribs.”
“Perfect. I’ve been baking a cobbler. Come in and sit down. Tell me about yourself while I finish the crust.”
We sit in the kitchen. Mickey at the table in his chair, me on a wooden chair beside him, his mother moving between the counter and the oven. The cobbler she’s making is peach with a lattice crust. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and butter.
“So you’re from Miami,” she says, sliding the cobbler into the oven and closing the door with her hip.
“Born and raised. My mom’s in Coral Gables.”
“And you plan weddings.”
“Yes, ma’am. Six years now. I run my own business.”
“How’d you end up all the way in the Panhandle?”
“I had a big wedding on 30A. I went to Tex’s bar because I wanted to watch the sunset.”
“And that’s when the trouble happened,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am. At the bar.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Her hands are still, the dish towel over her shoulder.
“And afterwards you went to see him in the hospital.”
“Every day I could make the drive.”
“Which was every day except for maybe a couple,” Mickey adds.
“That’s two hours each way,” she says. “While you were planning a wedding.”
I shrug and turn to smile at Mickey. “He was worth it. I needed to make sure he had something decent to eat besides hospital food.”
Mickey reaches over, takes my hand and holds it in his.
