Mr. Moretti goes still again.
“Explain,” he says.
“You said you’d stand between Mama and anything that causes her harm.” I tighten my fingers around my clipboard. “What if the thing causing her harm is her own body?”
His eyes sharpen.
“Raynaud’s?” he asks, remembering what I said earlier.
I nod. “Yes. Mama had to have one of her fingertips taken off because her body killed it.”
Mr. Moretti seems like the kind of man who keeps most things locked behind his eyes, but I see it anyway. The way his jaw tightens. The way his gaze flicks toward Mama across the yard.
She’s smiling at the photographer, pretending everything is fine like she always does.
“She says it isn’t dramatic,” I tell him. “But it is. Her fingers and toes turn white, and sometimes her nose, and she acts like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. Bodies aren’t supposed to fight themselves.”
“No,” he says quietly. “They’re not.”
“Can you stopthat?”
For the first time, he doesn’t answer right away.
Adults usually answer fast when they want to make kids feel better. Mama does that sometimes, even though I can tell when she’s making her voice too soft.
Mr. Moretti doesn’t do that.
He thinks about it.
Then he crouches in front of me again.
“I cannot stand between your mother and her own body, little one,” he says. “Not the way I can stand between her and a person who means her harm.”
My heart sinks a little, even though I already knew that.
“But,” he continues, “Icanpay attention. I can make sure she’s warm. I can remind her to eat and drink when she forgets. I can make sure she has doctors who know what they’re doing. I can make sure she has help so she doesn’t push herself until her body punishes her for it.”
I look toward Mama.
She’s laughing, but one hand is tucked under her opposite arm like she’s trying to warm her fingers without anyone noticing.
Anyone but me.
“And when she says she’s fine?” I ask.
Mr. Moretti’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious.
“Then I will not believe her.”
That makes me feel a little better.
“Mama says she knows her limits,” I tell him.
“She may,” he says. “But knowing your limits and respecting them are very different things.”
I stare at him.
That sounds exactly like Mama.
