Page 55 of Not a Word

“Why are you here?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Because I’m your son? And I want to help?”

I could hear background noise, which at first I thought must be a TV, but it sounded more like traffic. The distant rumble of a truck.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said.

On my way into the dining room, I happened to glance out the lobby windows to the parking lot and learned why I’d heard traffic on her end.

She was standing at the back end of a black Mercedes, talking to someone I did not recognize. A man, maybe an inch or two taller than Mom, dark suit and tie, thick-rimmed glasses, thinning hair. Early sixties, I was betting. A lawyer, maybe?

Even a mundane death presented numerous legal challenges. A will to probate, and estate to be distributed. But as Diana had pointed out, a complicated case like this? Legal headaches could abound.

Either way, why was this meeting in a parking lot? Why had she let me believe she was still in her room?

I watched for a moment. Mom was gesticulating, as if trying to make a point more emphatically, the man shaking his head. Even from my vantage point, he did not look happy to be having this conversation.

I went into the dining room, declined the waitress’s offer to check out the buffet or pick something off the menu, and just asked for coffee.

Five minutes later, Mom entered the room. I pushed back my chair, got to my feet, and put my arms around her when she reached the table. She returned the hug.

I said, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m okay,” she said, but I could see that she wasn’t. “Have you ordered?”

“Coffee. Have you had breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

The waitress returned with my coffee and Mom ordered a tea.

I got right to it. “Who was that guy you were talking to?”

Her eyes widened. “What guy?”

“In the parking lot.”

“You’re spying on me now?”

“I didn’t need binoculars. You were right out there in the open.”

“Your father was running around on me behind my back and now you’ve got me under surveillance. What I do and who I see is none of your business.” She looked around the room, hoping to spot the waitress. “I need a muffin.”

I raised my hand, caught a waiter’s attention. He hustled over. “My mother would like a muffin.”

He flashed her a smile and listed their muffin offerings.

“Surprise me,” she said. “Just not bran.”

And off he went.

I said, as gently as I could, “Mom, I get that what’s happened is still sinking in, that it doesn’t seem real, but there are things we need to get into the open. If there’s things going on I don’t know about, this would be a good time to tell me. You could start by telling me who that man was, what you were talking about. It looked serious.”

She slowly turned her head to face me and said, “An old friend.”

“An old friend,” I repeated. “He have a name?”

Her face suddenly lit up in alarm, and I braced myself to hear whatever it was she clearly didn’t want to tell me. “Did he say carrot? I don’t want a carrot muffin. He better not bring me one of those.”