I shook my head, both relieved she hadn’t noticed and a little disappointed. “Oh well,” she said, in the same cadence she said, you can’t have it all, a phrase she often used.

“You seem better,” I said.

“I think”—she shifted in bed, winced—“No, I think I am.”

Someone had moved the blue recliner back to the window. I pulled it close to her again, hung my overnight bag on the back and sat, balled up. My mind flashed to Leah, not three days ago, assuming the same position. You could stay, I’d said when I dropped her at the airport. But she had left, so I had also.

“Your mom’s such a trooper,” Nancy the nurse said, arriving with a thimble of pills, a cup of water. She handed my mom the thimble, watched her toss it back. “Just a little sip,” she said and gave her the water. My mom swallowed, touched her throat, turned to me. “Have you eaten anything lately?” she asked. I hadn’t eaten since the two peaches the day before.

“I can bring in a sandwich,” Nancy said.

“I’m worried about her,” my mom said.

“Of course you are,” Nancy said. “You’re a good mom, she’s a good girl.”

Something like pride touched my mom’s face. Something like a curtain began to lower.

“How’s your pain?” Nancy asked.

“Better now,” my mom said and turned to me. “How was it seeing Leah?” The question melted, dribbled out, and though I wanted to answer, to sit on the side of her bed and wonder at the differences between my little girl twin and me, the small ways in which we remained the same, I could tell my mother wasn’t up for it. She would disappoint me if I tried to talk, and I didn’t think I could take it.

“I’ll check on you girls in a while,” Nancy said.

“Do you need anything?” my mom asked me again, like if I did, I should place an order. Like I might take whatever pill she had, and together we might rest. Nancy was already out the door.

“Mom,” I said, “worry about yourself.” My words sounded tight and plucked. “Just sleep.” She had to fight not to. “I’m going to let you sleep.” I wandered into the hall. Nancy was around the corner, typing into a monitor on a wheeled platform.

“Is she sleeping?” she asked and I told her, “Just.”

“Are you?”

“Not really,” I said, and surprised myself with both the truth, and its evasion.

“Why don’t you go home? I’m the one working a double.”

“Can I stay?”

“I’m not going to kick you out again,” she said and walked me to a kitchenette, showed me the coffee maker, a mini fridge stocked with puddings and saran-wrapped sandwiches. I ate. And I did sleep, next to my mother in the blue recliner, dreamless.