between us—how natural those words sounded to his ears, how grating
to mine.
It wasn’t like Mother to leave Dad to make his own breakfast. I
thought she might be ill and went downstairs to check on her. I’d
barely made it to the landing when I heard it: deep sobs coming from
the bathroom, muffled by the steady drone of a blow-dryer. I stood
outside the door and listened for more than a minute, paralyzed.
Would she want me to leave, to pretend I hadn’t heard? I waited for
her to catch her breath, but her sobs only grew more desperate.
I knocked. “It’s me,” I said.
The door opened, a sliver at first, then wider, and there was my
mother, her skin glistening from the shower, wrapped in a towel that
was too small to cover her. I had never seen my mother this way, and
instinctively I closed my eyes. The world went black. I heard a thud,
the cracking of plastic, and opened my eyes. Mother had dropped the
blow-dryer and it had struck the floor, its roar now doubled as it
rebounded off the exposed concrete. I looked at her, and as I did she
pulled me to her and held me. The wet from her body seeped into my
clothes, and I felt droplets slide from her hair and onto my shoulder.