Page 28 of At His Beck & Call

She rises from where she’s sitting in front of one of the easels and pulls her walker toward her. I resist the urge to help; she’s perfectly capable of getting around, but I hate to see her struggling.

“Is Natalia still here?” I ask as she glares at me.

“Yes. You shouldn’t be paying her seven days a week. I told you I don’t need her on Sundays. I’m at church, and it’s a waste of her time andyourmoney.”

“She’s paid seven days a week, in case you need her, Mom. That’s the point.”

“Listen to the boy,” comes a voice from the other room as a small, Hispanic woman barrels past me and takes my mother’s arm, steadying her against the frame. My mother glowers at her.

“Stop fussing,” she mutters.

“Stoparguing,” Natalia snaps back, and they bicker playfully back and forth like two mother hens. We go down the hallway toward a small sitting room at the front of the house.

It’s a beautiful view out the window, the colors of spring all over the park now that the trees are beginning to get their leaves.

My mother sits down, frowning as Natalia scurries back out of the room again. She’s back in a flash with coffee and an assortment of cookies.

“You should be at home with your family,” my mother insists, and Natalia gives me a weary look as she shakes her head and leaves.

“Do you want a pay raise?” I shout after her, and she cackles with glee.

I already pay her more than the top rate for full-time help, and I don’t care. I would pay her three times as much to put up with Anne Heath. As much as I love my mother, she’s a belligerent and opinionated woman who never allows anyone to help her.

My mom pushes her walker aside, and I rise, moving it behind her so it's within easy reach. There’s a fire in the fireplace even though it’s no longer winter, and it crackles happily between us as my mother pours coffee. It’s decaffeinated, like all the other drinks in the house, and smells amazing.

She’s filled one cup and is starting on the other when her arm begins to shake. I gently take the pot from her grip, and she waves me off and sits down.

My mother has so many injuries, courtesy of my late father, that I can barely remember which ones bug her the most. Her spine is the main concern, and has caused her more problems this year than anything else.

I pay for physical therapy twice a week, and a chiropractor once a month. She constantly complains that she doesn’t need them, but since she started following their recommendationsand doing more regular stretching and exercises, the pain has lessened a little. Natalia doesn’t let her get away with not doing her daily routines, and I love her for that.

“She’s too expensive,” she says as I pick up two cookies and place them on my plate. They’re my favorites: chocolate on the outside, caramel just under the surface, and buttery-soft shortbread. Delicious.

“The money doesn’t matter, Mom. She's here to stay unless you fire her, which would break her heart in two.”

“She spends all her time talking to me. She barely does anything in this house,” my mother protests.

“Do you need her to do more cleaning?”

“What? Of course not. This house is immaculate.”

“Well, what are we arguing about then?”

“I don’t like it,” she grumbles. “You should be spending money on a nice young lady.”

“Who says I can’t do both?”

She looks up but shakes her head with a scowl. She knows me too well to ask about my love life. There hasn’t been anyone ever. That’s the brutal truth. No woman would want me long-term.

“How’s your back?” I ask, the question familiar and comfortable, like a weight between us that instantly irritates her again.

“It’s much better. The therapist is satanic, though. He is clearly on this earth to give me a heart attack.”

“Good, good,” I mutter, sipping my coffee as she glares at me.

“How is your work? Have they set up the meeting?”

“Tom asked for a meeting in a few days.”