Mom, meanwhile, was blooming. She laughed at his stories. She finished her meals. Her cheeks, hollow for years, filled out a little.
And every time I walked into the room, their voices dropped to nothing.
I called Brenda from the kitchen that night, my voice low.
"What were you two talking about?" I asked one evening.
"Just old songs," Mom said sweetly.
Louis tucked something into his vest pocket. A small leather notebook. I'd seen him writing in it before, always when he thought I wasn't looking.
I called Brenda from the kitchen that night, my voice low.
"Brenda, please. Just tell me what you know."
I did something I am not proud of.
There was a long silence on the line.
"I don't know who he is, Margaret. That's what hurts. She wouldn't tell me. Twelve years I sat at that woman's table, and she wouldn't tell me. She just said she'd chosen him and that I should mind my business. So I left."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She hung up.
Three days later, Mom had the attack.
I did something I am not proud of. That night, while Louis slept in the guest room, I went through his jacket where it hung over the chair. I found the notebook, and beneath it, a photograph.
It was old, cracked at the corners. A young woman in a hospital gown held a newborn, her face turned away from the camera.
Something about her shoulders looked familiar, but I couldn't place it. I put everything back exactly as I'd found it.
Three days later, Mom had the attack.
At the hospital, the doctor was firm.
