Part 2

Sitting beside her bed was a huge man in a black leather vest. His beard reached his chest, and tattoos climbed up his neck and covered both of his massive hands. One of those hands held a spoon of chicken soup, carefully raised toward my mother’s mouth.

And Mom—my frail, exhausted, bedridden mother—was smiling at him like he had brought the sun into the room.

“Mom?”

She turned toward me, and her smile faded slightly.

“Margaret. You’re home early.”

“Yes, I am.”

I kept my eyes on the stranger.

“Can I speak with you alone?”

The man set the spoon down, wiped a drop of soup from Mom’s chin, and stood.

“I’ll be in the garden, Miss Margaret,” he said quietly.

He walked past me. I waited until I heard the back door close.

Then I turned on my mother.

“Who is that?” I hissed. “Where did you find him? Brenda is devastated. She said you fired her.”

“His name is Louis.”

“That is not an explanation. Mom, look at him. The tattoos, the vest—he looks like he just walked out of—”

“Margaret.”

“What if he steals from you? What if he hurts you? What were you thinking, letting a stranger into this house while I was at work?”

“He is not a stranger to me.”

I stopped.

“What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer. She only turned her face toward the window, toward the garden, toward him.

“Mom, please. Brenda has cared for you for more than a decade. You can’t just replace her with some biker off the street.”

“He is staying,” Mom said.

Her voice had iron in it, a strength I had not heard in years.

“I want Louis to care for me. Do you understand, Margaret? No matter what.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

In twelve years of bathing her, feeding her, lifting her, and holding her through pain, I had never heard her speak to me like that.

Like I was the outsider.

Through the window, Louis knelt in her flower beds, pulling weeds like he had always belonged there.

The weeks that followed felt like a quiet war.

Louis moved through our house with calm purpose. He refilled Mom’s water, adjusted her pillows, read old gardening magazines aloud, and seemed to know exactly what she needed. Mom had handled everything herself before I even knew he existed—the paperwork, the payment, even the spare key.

By the time I thought to demand references, the arrangement was already done.

I watched him from doorways and hallways, waiting for something wrong.

A greedy glance.

A suspicious phone call.

A mistake.

But nothing came.

“You don’t have to watch me so closely, Miss Margaret,” he said one afternoon. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s what worries me.”

He only nodded, as if my dislike was weather he had prepared for.

Mom, meanwhile, began to bloom.

She laughed at his stories. She ate more. Her cheeks filled out a little.

But every time I entered the room, their conversations stopped.

One evening, I asked, “What were you talking about?”

“Old songs,” Mom said sweetly.

Louis slipped something into his vest pocket.

A small leather notebook.

I had seen him writing in it before, always when he thought I wasn’t looking.

That night, I called Brenda.

“Please,” I whispered. “Tell me what you know.”

There was a long silence.

“I don’t know who he is, Margaret. That’s what hurts. She wouldn’t tell me. After twelve years, she just told me she had chosen him and that I should mind my business.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all I have.”

Then she hung up.

I did something I’m not proud of.

That night, while Louis slept in the guest room, I searched his jacket where it hung over a chair.

I found the notebook.

And beneath it, a photograph.

It was old and cracked around the edges. A young woman in a hospital gown held a newborn baby, her face turned away from the camera.

Something about her shoulders seemed familiar, but I could not place it.

I put everything back exactly as I found it.

Three days later, Mom had the attack.

The ambulance came at four in the morning. Louis carried her down the hall and out to the paramedics himself, holding my mother like she weighed nothing, tears running down his face.

At the hospital, the doctor was firm.

“This is the illness, Margaret. It is progressing. This was not caused by anything someone did or failed to do.”

I heard him.

I did not believe him.

Louis never left her bedside.

CONTINUE READING