Sitting in the chair beside her bed was a man. Black leather vest. A beard down to his chest. Tattoos crawled up his neck and across both enormous hands, one of which held a spoon of chicken soup, gently angled toward my mother's lips.
And Mom. My bedridden, fragile, exhausted mother was beaming at him like he had hung the moon.
"Mom?"
She turned, and her smile faltered just a little. "Margaret. You're home early."
He brushed past me. I waited until I heard the back door close before I turned on my mother.
"Yes, I am." I kept my eyes on the stranger. "Can I talk to you alone?"
The man set the spoon back into the bowl, wiped a drop from her chin, and stood.
"I'll be in the garden, Miss Margaret," he said quietly.
He brushed past me. I waited until I heard the back door close before I turned on my mother.
"Who is that?" I hissed. "Mom, where did you find him? Brenda is crying her eyes out. She said you fired her."
"His name is Louis."
She turned her face toward the window, toward the garden, toward him.
"That's not an answer. Mom, look at him. Tattoos, a vest. He looks like he just walked out of a—"
"Margaret."
"What if he robs you? What if he hurts you? What were you thinking, letting a complete stranger into the house while I was at work?"
"He isn't a stranger to me."
I stopped. "What does that mean?"
She didn't answer. She turned her face toward the window, toward the garden, toward him.
In twelve years of bathing her, feeding her, lifting her, and holding her, I had never once heard her speak to me like that.
