“There you are!” she whispered.
I crossed the room and held her hands. I had expected myself to feel smart and distant. Instead, shame rose hot in my throat.
“Sit, sit,” Rosie said, tapping the chair beside her. “Have you eaten? You look tired.”
“I’m okay, Mama.”
“Are you sleeping enough, Timmy? You always pushed yourself too hard.”
No one had asked me those questions in years. Not after my father walked out. Not after my mother became ill.
I stayed there for an hour, mostly letting her talk. Rosie spoke about a garden I had never stepped into and a dog I had never had, and I nodded as though those memories belonged to me.
When I got up to leave, she tightened her fingers around my hand.
“Come back soon.”
“I will, Mama.”
As I turned toward the door, I looked back and saw tears glistening in her eyes. She quickly turned away and wiped them with the edge of her blanket.
On my second visit, I carried tulips. On the third, I brought a little box of caramel chocolates the nurse told me Rosie enjoyed. By the fourth visit, I arrived on a Wednesday, even though Tim had not paid for that day.
In the hallway, I ran into Margaret, a delicate woman with sharp eyes and a cardigan far too large for her frame. She watched me walk past her door with flowers in my hand.
“You visit her a lot,” she said.
“She’s my mother.”
Margaret angled her head. “She’s the sweetest soul here. You’re lucky.”
The way she said it made me glance away.
Tim phoned that Friday. His voice was tight.
“You don’t need to go midweek, Jeremy. This is just a job. Keep it simple.”
