I went to my phone, turned on selfie mode, video mode. I pressed the button to film and angled the recliner to see the screen. The shot caught my mom in the background, her sleeping face turned to the lens, showing both her sickness, and our likeness. For a moment I wondered if I should wait until she woke, ask her if she minded being broadcast to the world. But she was blocked from my account and would never know. I needed to do something; I couldn’t just stand there, in the silence, watching my mother’s waterlogged body work so hard to heal. I sat, crossed my legs, looked down at my breasts, then up at the red bead of the filming device.

“Hi everyone,” I croaked. I cleared my throat, started again. “Hey guys, I just wanted to check in here and ask for your thoughts and prayers for my mom, who is recovering from cancer. She’s a total warrior and with your good vibes, she’s going to come through this stronger than ever.” I heard her shift in bed behind me and turned. Her eyes were open. I looked down again but didn’t bother to replace my hoodie.

“Hey,” I said. She stared and I thought she might mention the video I was shooting, or my body, the shape of it. She looked, instead, at the wires plugged into her arm, the top of her hand. Almost horror, the expression on her face.

“Mom,” I said.

“Some mistake,” she murmured. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

I glanced at the camera, the red bead still alive. Should I believe her? Was it the drugs speaking for her? I wasn’t sure. What if there had truly been a mistake?

“Where are you supposed to be?” I asked.

“What?” Her mouth was full, every word in the way. I turned back toward her and spoke slow. “If you are not supposed to be here, where are you supposed to be?”

“Home,” she mouthed, but didn’t say.

“I brought you a Diet Coke,” I said, removing the can and holding it, label out, for the camera. At home, when I had packed it, I’d imagined how grateful she would be for the treat, the thoughtfulness I was bringing to her care. I had felt useful, picturing myself delivering the soda to her, as if that singular act might fix her. But now she only nodded, blank-faced as I cracked the cap, handed her the can. She held it with both hands, lifted it to her mouth and slurped. I watched her, picturing the moment on film, a sweet, sharable version of our love I could shear away from her confusion, and offer to Instagram, the world. Awwwww, followers would respond. Such a sweet daughter Such a caring, loving girl.

“That’s good,” my mother said and swallowed.