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“Do you recognize those people, Liz?”
“Well, I think so,” she said tentatively. “I know that must be me, and I think this is you, right? It looks like it could be you as a little girl.”
“Yes, that is you and me, and the man is my dad, your husband, Robert.”
“Oh.” She glanced around as if looking for any signs of him. “I’m your mother,” She said it rather matter-of-factly. Somedays she denied it; today she accepted it.
“He is rather attractive. Is he here, your father?”
“No, Liz, he passed away several years ago.”
She studied me, her lawyer cynicism shining through her eyes even though she wasn’t herself. “Why are you calling me by my name if you are my daughter?”
I took a seat on the couch and leaned back. “Somedays you get a little confused, Mom. On those days, you don’t always know who I am, and when I call you Mom, you can get a little defensive. I learned a long time ago to call you Liz when you aren’t feeling like yourself.”
She nodded tentatively as she began to look around. “And I live here?”
“Yes, you do.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your husband?”
“I don’t have a husband, Mom,” I told her.
She frowned as if she didn't like that answer, and I started to get off the couch, my legs aching from all the physical torment they went through today. “Would you like to help me cook dinner? I was just about to put stir-fry on.”
“Do you mind if I look around?”
“Of course not, Mom. This is your house. If you want to see your room, it is up the stairs and the first door on the left. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
“Okay,” she replied, and as I headed back to the kitchen, I paused at the alarm panel and armed it. Not because I was worried that someone would break in. I was more worried that she would decide to investigate the outdoors and wander away. She had done that once but hadn’t gotten far before a neighbor saw her and brought her home.
I was in the kitchen, the last of the ingredients cut and ready to go into the wok when the doorbell rang. I turned the stove off again and hoped that this was a quick interruption.
I disarmed the alarm and pulled open the door as my mother came down the stairs.
“Maggie Valor?” A man in jeans and a black t-shirt stood on the opposite side with a package in his hands.
“Yes, I’m Maggie Valor.”
“Here, this is for you.” He held the package out to me, and as soon as I took it, he spun and started heading back down the walkway.
“I don’t need to sign anything?” I called as I glanced at the box. I turned it over in my hands, but there were no labels, no stamps, no nothing. There was something substantial inside the box that shifted as I moved it. I shook the box to see if there was a sound, but heard only the muted thud of the contents. “Who is this from?” I called to the man as he reached his car and climbed in.
“Who was that?” my mother said from beside me.
“I don’t know. Some delivery guy.”
“What is it?” she asked as I closed the door.
“I have no clue. I’ll open it after dinner,” I told her and carried it into the kitchen with me, setting it on the counter and going back to the stove. I was more interested in food than the mysterious package from a rude man.
Mom followed me into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. As I cooked, she studied every inch of the room. From time to time, as I stirred the food, I glanced at the box. Why were there no labels on it? Not even my name? It was starting to make me a little uneasy as I contemplated it.
I glanced at my phone, wishing that I had Greg’s number to call him. He never had texted me when he said he would. What if I called Jake? Would he think I was paranoid? Maybe. Or maybe I could tell him I had a question for Greg or better yet, Trevor. Trevor wouldn’t think I was paranoid, would he?
