In preparation for my mother’s return, I arranged a pillow station on the couch for her daytime resting. I put clean sheets on her bed, turned them down to make a triangle of fresh white where she would sit before she lay each night. I opened the Ziplocs, removed every bottle. Ativan, Zofran, Amoxicillin, hydromorphone, patches of fentanyl to alternate with the pills when the pain broke through. Nancy had taught me the routine, extra careful with the patches, latex gloves before I peeled.

I arranged the medications on my mom’s nightstand. I filled a glass halfway with water and put it beside the bottles. I brought items like a bowerbird: a tissue box and scented candle; a pumice stone and nail file; a hairbrush. I checked my phone, swiped away notifications, Jake’s name. I swallowed my last Xanax and chucked the bottle.

23.

Afternoon, my mom up and ready. Nancy was off, a new nurse on. “Big day,” the nurse said and removed the IV from my mother’s hand. Homeward bound, my mom sang, off key. The nurse helped her to the recliner. “I got it,” I said, and stepped in with the outfit I’d picked. My mom and I worked together. Underwear, pants, hoodie. Her body was familiar, but it made no sense why. Before the day I helped her pee, it had been years since I’d seen her naked. She kept the sticky hospital socks, slid haltingly into her rhinestone shoes. Her hair was matted from so much pillow-time.

“We’ll fix that at home,” I said.

“We’ll have a spa day,” she said.

The nurse said, “Y’all are cute,” and wheeled over a chair.

“I can walk,” my mom said, but it was policy for her to ride. I went to the garage ahead of her, pulled the car to the entrance where she waited, seated, an orderly at the helm of her chair. He lowered her into the passenger seat.

“Feel better, girls,” he said.

My mother said, “We’re free.”

“OUCH,” SHE HAD said with every struck pothole, for as long as I could remember. But on the way home from the hospital, she was quiet. I turned up the radio, NPR soundbites, Make America Great Again, and the swell of a chanting crowd: USA USA USA. My mom reached over, pressed the CD button. Aaron Copland, her favorite Americana, swelled from the speakers and she sat up in her chair for him. But she stayed quiet, and by the time we got home, she’d lilted into the seatbelt. “We’re here,” I said to wake her. She reached slowly for the door handle. “Stop,” I yelled. “Let me get it.” I ran around, opened her door and kneeled in the frame. “You have to let me help you,” I said. “Or this isn’t going to work.” Her face dropped. “Sorry,” I said.