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“Maybe she’s asleep,” Tracy said as we approached the huge master bedroom overlooking the back garden. “We don’t want to disturb her,” she added, trying to disguise the hope in her voice as concern.
The door was open and I peeked inside. A king-size four-poster bed sat against one white wall, our mother wan and minuscule inside its voluminous sheets. Her failing body was propped up by three well-stuffed pillows at her back and three more supporting each arm. Two years ago, after her condition made it impossible for her and my father to continue sharing a bed, he’d moved into the smaller bedroom across the hall.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, approaching the bed and running my hand over her thinning gray hair, hair that was once thick and dark, hair she used to be so proud of, took such pains with.
She twisted her head slowly in my direction. “Hello, dear,” she said, her eyes searching the room. “Is that Tracy?”
“Yes, Mom. It’s me,” Tracy said from the doorway. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better, now that you’re here. Come closer. Let me see you.”One arm jerked out to grab at Tracy’s hand. “What a beautiful dress.”
“It’s Victoria Beckham,” Tracy said, forgoing the accompanying twirl. “So, what did you think of Elyse Woodley?”
“She seems very nice,” our mother whispered, pushing each word out with difficulty, the frozen expression on her face revealing nothing.
“We interviewed a lot of women,” Tracy went on. “She was far and away the best.”
“You’re a sweet thing to go to so much trouble.”
If Tracy had any qualms about stealing credit for my work, she did a good job hiding it. She hung around a few more minutes, then excused herself. “I’ll come see you this weekend,” she said, giving our mother a quick peck on her forehead.
“I can stay awhile,” I offered, scooting up on the bed beside her.
I like to think I saw her smile.
