hospital bed on the side. A woman sat on the couch, her hair thin under a skullcap and her skin sunken around her eyes.
“Oh, hello.” She patted at the blanket over her lap, and then landed a hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. You must be Nicky’s friend.”
“Yes. Hi. I’m Michael.” He went to where she was sitting. She didn’t seem capable of getting up, so Michael reached out.
He could feel her bones through her skin as they shook hands, and he hoped she couldn’t see him recoil. The room smelled stale, like cleaners were fighting with mold, or maybe that was just the normal odor of people who were as sick as Nicky’s mother looked.
“This is my mom, Lydia,” Nicky said from behind him.
Nicky’s mom smiled. Her eyes were tired, creased around the edges in a way that seemed out of place with her features. She didn’t look that old, and if Nicky was her son, she couldn’t have been much over sixty.
“Hi, Lydia.” Michael smiled, though it was hard to do when seeing her obviously pained face.
Her lips quirked up. “It’s good of you to come around.”
There was a lump in Michael’s throat, filling the place he normally stored his righteous indignation. For some reason, he’d expected to be curt with this woman, or at the very least to think of her as the enemy.
Now that Michael was seeing her, he couldn’t feel any kind of animosity. She was dying. There was no way not to notice.
“Michael brought dinner.” Nicky held up the casserole pan.
Lydia made a face like a wince. “I’m not hungry.”
Nicky tsk ed, rounding to where a side table held a lineup of medicine bottles with white caps. “Did you take these this afternoon?” He pulled out a couple pills and pushed them into his mother’s hand.
His mother rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I bother. They don’t work.” She threw them back, frowning as she swallowed.
“Here.” Michael picked her cup off the coffee table and handed it her direction. He’d never in his life been around someone this sick. All his grandparents were still alive, and the sole great-grandparent who’d passed away in his lifetime had lived out in Port Orchard, a place his parents only made him go a few times.
“Thank you.” She took the cup in her shaking hand.
Michael wondered if he should help her get it to her lips, but she managed a sip without help.
“You boys don’t have to stay.” She waved them off with a quick gesture. “Go talk. Have fun.”
Across the couch, Nicky’s gaze met Michael’s—his eyes going wider as if his mom had just said some kind of innuendo—and Michael cringed to think of what kind of fun he’d been coming here to have.
“Sure, Mom.” Nicky crossed in front of her, landing an awkward kiss on her cheek as he passed. “And we’ll bring you some food when it’s done.”
With how fast Nicky cleared out of the room and headed to the kitchen, Michael was surprised his mom had the reflexes to call out, “You don’t need to. I’m not hungry.”
That was an argument Michael wasn’t planning to get in the middle of, so he followed into the kitchen in the back of the house. Unlike the living room, which felt like a shrine built out of religious statuary, the kitchen was wallpapered with a floral pattern. The windowsills were decorated with doodads in addition to planters and vases. But somehow in here, the effect of the mournful saints and baby angels wasn’t quite as intense as in the living room.
“I probably should have warned you.” Nicky set down the casserole dish and turned on the rickety oven.
“Oh. Well, I expected her to be sick. With what you said…” Seeing the expression of confusion in Nicky’s eyes, Michael trailed off. Okay, maybe Nicky could have given Michael more preparation, but it’s not like Nicky hadn’t shared that she was going into end-of-life care. It was just a shock coming upon a person that—there was no other way to say it—was so close to the
“Oh, hello.” She patted at the blanket over her lap, and then landed a hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. You must be Nicky’s friend.”
“Yes. Hi. I’m Michael.” He went to where she was sitting. She didn’t seem capable of getting up, so Michael reached out.
He could feel her bones through her skin as they shook hands, and he hoped she couldn’t see him recoil. The room smelled stale, like cleaners were fighting with mold, or maybe that was just the normal odor of people who were as sick as Nicky’s mother looked.
“This is my mom, Lydia,” Nicky said from behind him.
Nicky’s mom smiled. Her eyes were tired, creased around the edges in a way that seemed out of place with her features. She didn’t look that old, and if Nicky was her son, she couldn’t have been much over sixty.
“Hi, Lydia.” Michael smiled, though it was hard to do when seeing her obviously pained face.
Her lips quirked up. “It’s good of you to come around.”
There was a lump in Michael’s throat, filling the place he normally stored his righteous indignation. For some reason, he’d expected to be curt with this woman, or at the very least to think of her as the enemy.
Now that Michael was seeing her, he couldn’t feel any kind of animosity. She was dying. There was no way not to notice.
“Michael brought dinner.” Nicky held up the casserole pan.
Lydia made a face like a wince. “I’m not hungry.”
Nicky tsk ed, rounding to where a side table held a lineup of medicine bottles with white caps. “Did you take these this afternoon?” He pulled out a couple pills and pushed them into his mother’s hand.
His mother rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I bother. They don’t work.” She threw them back, frowning as she swallowed.
“Here.” Michael picked her cup off the coffee table and handed it her direction. He’d never in his life been around someone this sick. All his grandparents were still alive, and the sole great-grandparent who’d passed away in his lifetime had lived out in Port Orchard, a place his parents only made him go a few times.
“Thank you.” She took the cup in her shaking hand.
Michael wondered if he should help her get it to her lips, but she managed a sip without help.
“You boys don’t have to stay.” She waved them off with a quick gesture. “Go talk. Have fun.”
Across the couch, Nicky’s gaze met Michael’s—his eyes going wider as if his mom had just said some kind of innuendo—and Michael cringed to think of what kind of fun he’d been coming here to have.
“Sure, Mom.” Nicky crossed in front of her, landing an awkward kiss on her cheek as he passed. “And we’ll bring you some food when it’s done.”
With how fast Nicky cleared out of the room and headed to the kitchen, Michael was surprised his mom had the reflexes to call out, “You don’t need to. I’m not hungry.”
That was an argument Michael wasn’t planning to get in the middle of, so he followed into the kitchen in the back of the house. Unlike the living room, which felt like a shrine built out of religious statuary, the kitchen was wallpapered with a floral pattern. The windowsills were decorated with doodads in addition to planters and vases. But somehow in here, the effect of the mournful saints and baby angels wasn’t quite as intense as in the living room.
“I probably should have warned you.” Nicky set down the casserole dish and turned on the rickety oven.
“Oh. Well, I expected her to be sick. With what you said…” Seeing the expression of confusion in Nicky’s eyes, Michael trailed off. Okay, maybe Nicky could have given Michael more preparation, but it’s not like Nicky hadn’t shared that she was going into end-of-life care. It was just a shock coming upon a person that—there was no other way to say it—was so close to the
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