Chương 14
She smiled faintly.
“You’ve become annoying.”
“Genetics.”
She looked at the closed door.
“I was thinking about your father.”
I waited.
“He would have hated all this fuss.”
“Dad loved fuss.”
“He loved causing fuss.”
“True.”
Mom smiled.
Then she said, “When he got sick, I decided being useful was the only thing I was good at.”
I sat down.
She kept looking at the door.
“If I was arranging medications or calling doctors or cleaning something, I didn’t have to think about what was happening.”
“That makes sense.”
“It became a habit.”
Her fingers moved over the blanket.
“After he died, nobody needed that much from me anymore.”
I did not speak.
“I hated it.”
The admission seemed to embarrass her.
“So when you called about Hannah, part of me was relieved.”
My throat tightened.
“You came because you needed to be needed.”
“Partly.”
She nodded.
“That doesn’t make what I did your fault.”
“I know.”
She looked at me quickly.
I surprised myself too.
I did know.
Not perfectly.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
“I’m still angry,” I said.
“You should be.”
“I’m probably going to stay angry for a while.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“And I’m helping anyway.”
Mom’s mouth trembled.
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It probably will be.”
She reached toward me.
I took her hand.
This time neither of us mistook dependence for failure.
Mom came home two days later with six new prescriptions, a folder thick enough to stun a burglar, and strict instructions not to lift anything heavier than ten pounds.
Hannah weighed seventeen.
Mom read the discharge sheet twice and said, “This seems targeted.”
Christopher took the baby from her before she could make a case.
“You may admire her from a medically approved distance.”
“I dislike your administration.”
“You appointed me.”
“Under duress.”
We had moved the guest room around before she returned.
The armchair sat closer to the bed.
A small table held medications, water, tissues, ostomy supplies, and a notebook where Christopher had written times in neat columns.
Mom stood in the doorway staring at it.
“What is this?”
“Organization,” I said.
“This is surveillance.”
“You survived the cameras.”
She looked at me.
For half a second the joke sat badly between us.
Then she said, “Barely.”
I touched her arm.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
She entered the room.
There had been so many apologies in the hospital that the words had begun to feel cheap, but this one landed differently because neither of us tried to use it to erase anything.
Aunt Margaret stayed in a hotel nearby because Mom refused to let three adults and a baby occupy one house “like a low-budget reality show.”
She came over every morning anyway.
Usually with coffee.
Always with an opinion.
On the third day, we went to the oncology appointment.
Dr. Ruiz had more results.
The tumor profile gave them treatment options, she explained, though none of the phrases she used sounded like options anyone would choose if there were another door available.
Mom asked about side effects.
She asked about the ostomy.
She asked whether treatment could shrink the disease enough to ease the fluid buildup.
She asked whether she would lose her hair.
Then she asked the question I had been waiting for.
“How long do I have?”
Dr. Ruiz rested her hands on the desk.
“We can talk about statistics.”
“I asked about me.”
“I know.”
Mom held her gaze.
Dr. Ruiz said, “I can’t give you an exact number that would be honest.”
Mom’s mouth tightened.
“So nobody knows.”
“We know this is serious.”
“I gathered that.”
“We also know you are well enough to treat.”
Mom looked at me.
Then Margaret.
Then back at Dr. Ruiz.
“What happens if I do nothing?”
The room went very still.
Dr. Ruiz answered without flinching.
“The cancer will continue to progress.”
“And if I do treatment?”
“We try to control it.”
“For how long?”
“That varies.”
Mom looked down at her hands.
I could almost see her searching for certainty and finding none.
Finally she said, “I want to try.”
I did not speak.
Margaret did not either.
It mattered that the sentence belonged to Mom.
Treatment began the following week.
By then, we had hired a part-time nanny named Rosa who had twenty-two years of childcare experience, four grandchildren, and no interest in impressing me.
During our interview, I asked how she handled choking emergencies.
Rosa said, “First, I do not give a baby food shaped like a choking emergency.”
Christopher coughed to hide a laugh.
I hired her.
The first day she came, I worked from the dining room and checked the camera app eleven times before noon.
On the twelfth, I stopped myself.
Rosa was sitting on the rug while Hannah tried to put a stacking ring on her head.
Nothing was wrong.
I put my phone facedown.
That should have felt simple.
It didn’t.
Mom’s first infusion lasted most of the afternoon.
The oncology center had recliners arranged in small bays, warm blankets in a cabinet, and a television nobody watched.
Margaret brought crossword puzzles.
I brought my laptop.
Mom looked at both of us.
“So one of you intends to annoy me intellectually and the other professionally.”
I closed the laptop.
“I can leave.”
“You will not.”
Her voice came out too fast.
I stayed.
The first few hours were uneventful enough to feel suspicious.
Then Mom became tired.
Not ordinary tired.
Something seemed to unplug behind her eyes.
On the drive home, she rested her head against the window and did not make a single comment about my lane changes.
That scared me more than nausea would have.
The next morning she tried to make toast and had to sit down halfway through.
I took the knife from her.
“I can spread butter.”
“I know.”
“You’re behaving as if I’ve lost motor function.”
“You look like standing is a complicated negotiation.”
“That is temporary.”
May you like
“I know.”
She watched me finish the toast.
