‘Mikey?’

Silence.

She climbed out of bed, took up her crutches, and made her way to the door, which she gently pushed open. She was able to observe the staircase, the living room, the dining room beyond. A light gleamed upon the long table they rarely used now, and she saw Mikey in his shorts, a glass of milk in his hand, emerge from the kitchen and stand at the bottom of the staircase, ready to ascend. He paused, looked around, slowed the circle of his sweeping eyes when he saw the study door ajar, then went up the stairs.

Hastily, she shut the door, retreated to her bed and sternly took up the book at her bedside, adjusted the lampshade and tried to read. A paperback edition of Madame Bovary that she had found in the otherwise barren hospital bookshop. Perhaps it had come to be there because of its cheap appearance, or because it seemed like a romance – ‘Unabridged,’ the cover proclaimed. Was it no more than a romance, after all? She pushed these thoughts aside, knowing they would lead her back to thinking about her son, up there alone in his room, and to contemplating how unnatural it was for her, no, for both of them to impose this preposterous lack of intimacy upon each other. A chaste distance had to be maintained between them, as if something unholy would happen if they had a cup of hot milk together.

She would take the milk to his room, or call him down, since she could not climb the stairs. They would hold the steaming mugs to their lips, sip the hot sweetness, the way they used to, long ago, talk about the day gone by, about tomorrow, about his exams, about her decision not to go back to being a nurse. She could explore his increasingly adult mind, talk about things she no longer felt comfortable discussing with Silas.

Abruptly, she halted this train of thought. He had grown up, wanted company his own age, probably surfing the Net right now, participating in chat rooms with people his age all across the world. What need had he of an ageing mother, flecked with grey, worn down by a lifetime of drudgery? She could become one of Silas's case studies, if he ever decided to write a book about how the ‘law’ prescribed not only the lives of nations, but of individuals as well. She had lived according to one immutable law: self-containment.

She read: Madame Bovary had opened her window overlooking the garden and watched the clouds. Then she snapped the book shut and got out of bed.

She stared at the crutches for a moment, as if imagining how awkward it would be to climb the stairs using those damned things. Mikey would listen, charting her progress, counting each weary thump. What would she say to him when she reached his room? ‘I just want to talk.’ And that was the truth. All she really wanted was some warm, intelligent company, not these cold books, their spines held in rigid hostility against her presence. She closed her eyes as if to ward off some wayward vision, put on her gown and slowly made her way into the hall, leaning up against the wall when she felt unsteady.