My mother has continued to stare at me, with an expression of slow-dawning recognition. Her voice is hoarse and near-inaudible: “‘Violet’—?”

My mother is not exactly welcoming me but neither is she turning away from me in repugnance.

Probably, her memory has been affected by the chemotherapy. Though Katie has prepared her for my visit, she seems to have forgotten.

“‘Vio-let’?”

Of course, I too am changed. Changed enormously. Can’t even remember what I must have looked like, when my mother last saw me.

Twenty-seven years old! Not a girl any longer.

I am stooping to embrace my mother in the chair, awkwardly. I see that her eyes are grotesquely bloodshot. Her skin is unnaturally pale, brittle-looking as if it might disintegrate to the touch. Beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat, that gives her a quasi-glamorous look, the strawberry blond wig is slightly askew.

“Oh, Mom! I am so sorry.”

How natural it seems, to apologize. Always, the easiest recourse.

An effort for Mom to lift her arms but she manages to lift her arms. Awkwardly I am crouched above her, trying to hug her without hurting her. Such frail arms! Such a frail body! Lula had once been fleshy, comforting in her ample breasts, hips; now I am concerned that I may bruise her.

“Violet. Hello . . .” Still Mom seems uncertain about me, who I am or why I am here. Her voice is scratchy, barely audible. But she is alert to the fact of the red climber roses, a gift. “These are pretty! Thank you.”

“For your garden, Mom. I’ll help you put it in.”

I am wondering if, with her bloodied eyes, Mom can even see the little roses clearly. She grips my wrist to steady herself.

Mom is wearing a loose-fitting sweater and slacks, bedroom slippers on thin white feet. A chemical odor wafts from her body, pinching my nostrils. Seen close up the strawberry blond wig is obviously synthetic; a human-hair wig would have cost a thousand dollars. But I don’t doubt that Daddy was deceived by this wig, or wished to be deceived.

I am wishing that Katie had warned me about the bloodshot eyes. Broken capillaries from the chemo, must be. And the pungent odor! I am close to gagging.

Seeing that I am distracted, shaky, tears running down my cheeks, my nurse’s-aide cousin Trix shoves a box of tissues at me. Offers me a glass of grapefruit juice—“Your mom loves this and it’s good for her, not too much sugar.” Drags another lawn chair over for me to sit in, close by my mother.

Daringly, I take one of Mom’s hands. Thin, cool, papery skin, veins visible through the skin, and no rings—this is not a hand I have ever seen before. And so soft.

No rings, her fingers are too thin. I wonder if she misses them. If she will ever wear them again.

“Oh, Mom. Gosh . . .”