“I like it here,” she says, looking over at me shyly. “I think I could.”
On Sunday we take the two-hour drive to see my mother at the hospital, and Sophia fidgets with the loose, gauzy sleeves of her blouse all the way there. “Do you really think she’ll like me?” she asks when we arrive.
I pretend not to be happy that she cares what my mother thinks. I’m hoping it suggests that she’d like to stick around long-term, and not just that she’s worried about disappointing my mother when she’s the only reason she’s here.
Though I’m quickly finding other reasons for her to be here.
Sophia and I are falling into a rhythm at home. She’s found house projects, like cleaning the outside of the windows with a long-poled squeegee device she somehow managed to order online. I’ve given her free run of my Amazon account, and she’s also bought a new organizer for my silverware and a dresser for the guest room.
“You might have other guests someday,” she told me as if she felt she had to justify buying one when she’d only be in that room for three more weeks if she leaves.
I’m not sure that I will have other guests, but the exercise equipment is doing fine downstairs, and Sophia’s been using it as well, though she tells me that running on a treadmill next to nature isn’t exactly the same as being out in it.
“Living in the city isn’t the same, either,” I’d told her, and she’d smiled.
We climb out of the car and head up to the hospital entrance. Cocoa has to stay behind on these trips because I don’t want to leave her in the car in case I’m here for a while. She always sulks when I do get back like I’ve personally insulted her by locking her inside.
She’s got food and water and a bed to sleep on, not to mention full run of the house so I know she’ll be fine.
We head into the oncology wing and check in with the front desk. Sophia looks more nervous than ever, and I put a hand on her back to comfort her. I walk close to her, and she smells like peaches today in addition to wildflowers, and I wonder if she put on some special lotion or perfume. It’s a comfort to have her here, in what usually feels like the loneliest part of my week.
My mother is lying in her hospital bed, as always. I believe they’ve moved her to a bedpan now, so she never has to get up. There is a bundle of cords attached to the port surgically installed in her chest, dripping various medicines and fluids down from IV bags.
Her face looks even gaunter than it did last week. My mother was never a small woman, but she’s wilting away beneath the pale green hospital sheets.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, moving to the stool beside her bed and taking her hand. Her skin feels loose and paper-thin. “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”
Mom’s eyes open wider than I’ve seen them in a while. “Really?” she asks.
I smile. “You don’t have to act so surprised.”
One corner of Mom’s mouth turns up. “With you, son, I certainly do.”
I hold out a hand to Sophia and draw her over near the bedside. “Mom, this is Sophia. She’s the woman I’m seeing.”
Sophia gives Mom a small smile, and I wonder if seeing my mom like this reminds her of her own mother, and I suddenly feel guilty for bringing her here.
“Hello,” Sophia says. “It’s so nice to meet you finally.”
The finally part is a nice touch. Sophia knows that my mother doesn’t have a clue about our arrangement, and she knows I want to keep it that way. From the conversation we had yesterday over lunch, I gather she didn’t exactly tell people back home where she was going and why, either.
I suppose that’s one benefit of being alone. Fewer people to notice when you do something they wouldn’t approve of.
“Lovely to meet you, too, dear,” Mom says, and lets go of my hand to reach for Sophia’s.
Sophia
takes it and holds it gently. “How are you feeling?” she asks.
My mother sighs. “They made me take a suppository,” she says. “Do you know what that is?”
Sophia’s eyes widen in surprise. “Um, yes, I—”
“Don’t get old, dear,” Mom says. “That’s my advice. Getting old is not for the faint of heart.”
I shake my head at Mom. “Neither is dating me.”
Mom laughs, though the laugh ends in a dry, hacking cough. She’s getting oxygen through a tube that runs under her nose, and her breathing is less labored this week. I wonder if they’re given her more now.