The strong smell, of yesterday’s fried chicken, makes me want to gag. It’s never like that at Dad’s. Joanna always has some scent of the month destroying the ozone layer. I used to call it Mom’s, I don’t know when that changed. But it did. Everything did. There are no more messages on my phone. No more trips to the mall on a Thursday evening for coffee in Bakers Beans, where we would chat about everything and anything. She always had something for me; a t-shirt, my favorite shampoo, a hat in winter. It was like she could never give me enough. I miss it. Not the stuff. Her.

Following Bert down the hallway is like traveling back in time. The wallpaper, with big yellow flowers on a grey background, has probably been back in fashion twice since they bought it. A carpet of blurred diamond shaped colors with a pathway worn into it leads us to the back room, the good room, where Edith sits in a chair by a blazing fire. The house is warm, so I’m surprised to see her wrapped in a blanket. Bert glances at me, shaking his head briefly, before I walk over and kneel down by her side.

‘Hi Edith,’ I say, speaking close to her good ear.

‘Hello Becca,’ she smiles. Her hand shakes as she attempts to grip mine. She looks about ten years older than she did two weeks ago. Her face has diminished to skin stretched on bone. Her sunken eyes are glass stones in quicksand. Just lifting her head seems to take every ounce of energy she has.

‘I baked you some muffins.’ I open the bag so she can see inside.

‘They look lovely, Becca. You shouldn’t have bothered.’ She gasps for air between every word.

‘It was a pleasure, Edith. You can have them with a coffee.’

‘I’ll put them in the pantry for later,’ Bert says loudly. He beckons for me to follow him. Taking the walking stick that’s resting on the back of Edith’s chair, he leads me into the kitchen.

‘What’s going on, Bert? How come she’s wrapped up like that?’

‘We had a bit of bad news this week, Becca.’

When I called in two weeks ago, Edith was going into the hospital the following day for some tests.

‘How bad?’ I say.

‘Six to eight weeks, they say.’ Tears are gathering in the corner of his eyes. He lifts a frail hand to wipe them away. Six to eight weeks is such short notice.

I think about Mom and her endless departure and wonder which is easier.

‘Does Edith know?’

‘She knows she’s sick, that she’s not getting better.’

‘Is there anything I can do? I feel like…’ But I can’t finish the sentence.

Placing his trembling hand on my shoulder, Bert sighs.