I went to my phone, stopped the video. I should keep this I thought. Jake had advised me to save any potential content. “You’d be surprised by what you can salvage with careful editing,” he’d said. I turned my back to the room, faced the window and pressed play. On the screen I was small and so was my mom. I watched myself remove the can from her purse, crack the cap, pass it to her. There was a long, quiet moment while she drank. She stilled, digesting. I watched myself watch her. “Mom?” I heard myself say. Then, as the vomit began, “Mommy?” The word was a surprise to me. I didn’t remember saying it, and though anytime she called or texted, my phone glowed “Mommy,” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken the word. I turned the volume down, watched vomit pour out of her, heard the noises I made, grunts like I was sick, too. I watched myself flit around the room, frantic, a bug in a jar, watched myself punch the call button on her bed. A voice came out of a speaker in the handrail.

“Can I help you?” It fuzzed, all static.

“An accident,” I yelled.

Another wave of vomit, this one just bile. I ran to the bathroom, pulled clumps of paper towel from a dispenser, brought them back and covered my mother’s chest. Her body waved again.

“Look at me,” she wailed, and my face crumpled, ugly and small. There was another wave, then stillness. We waited. Finally, she began to move the paper over herself.

“I’ll do it,” I said, and she held up her hands to let me. But there weren’t enough sheets. I was just pushing around the mess.

I stopped the video and pressed the button to delete.

13.

At the airport, I parked in the cell phone lot and disappeared into my phone, watching a weightlifter named Erin with 300,000 followers explain progressive overloading, watching a verified makeup artist explain her ten-step skincare routine. “If you do nothing else, SPF fifty,” she said and waggled a tube at the screen. The story moved to a washed-up model’s call to action, “Guys, the oceans are dying.” She made namaste hands. I watched until the smell of vomit hit me, wafting off my sports bra like it had just splattered there. I looked around for nearby drivers, then peeled off the bra, careful with my arms, the sore spots on my breasts that kicked up when I lifted them. I chucked the bra to the floor and zipped into my hoodie. If I still smelled, it was just a faint whiff, a virtue signal, proof I was a good daughter, taking care.