She was on an air mattress.
My seventy-year-old mother who was on her third week of chemotherapy, who could barely manage stairs on her good days, who had been installed in the first-floor guest room because of the proximity to the bathroom and because of the stairs.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and I looked at her.
She stirred.
She opened her eyes.
She saw me.
She said: Sara.
She said it with the specific quality of someone who is not sure if they are waking up or dreaming.
I said: Mom.
She said: you’re home early.
I said: yes.
She said: I’m sorry I’m down here.
She said it immediately.
She said: Gabriel said they needed the room. I didn’t want to cause trouble.
