Either she had bumped her head against the bedpost or something had bitten her while she had slept; whatever it had been, her subconscious mind had folded it into the weird dream about Grace.

She noticed a note lying on the nightstand, beside the clock. It was written in her mother’s elegant script. She had to switch on the bedside lamp to read it:

Running errand to supermarket to replenish provisions;
will pick up children on my return.
Left your lunch wrapped in refrigerator.
Love, Mother

Monica smiled to herself. Her mother was so thoughtful and kind. While Monica suffered from this debilitating mystery illness, Grace had stepped in, without being asked, and picked up the responsibilities of running the family.

Troy’s dislike of her mother bewildered her. Why couldn’t he see and accept the truth of the value she added to their lives?

Although she had napped, presumably for many hours, her mind still felt foggy. She attributed it to the steady stream of medications she had been ingesting for the past several days.

Monica slid on her house slippers and shuffled downstairs. She had to move slowly, carefully, lest she send nails of pain blasting through her joints. Every joint creaked and crackled with pain.

At the rate she was going, she would soon need a walking cane, or perhaps a wheelchair.

In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and located her lunch sitting on a plate, wrapped in plastic. It was a ham-and-cheddar sandwich on wheat, layered with lettuce and tomato and accompanied by a bunch of green grapes, and a bowl of homemade vegetable soup.

Pangs of hunger twisted her stomach. She hadn’t eaten much of anything all day.

After warming the soup in the microwave, she sat on a bar stool at the counter and settled in to enjoy her meal. She felt as if she were a little girl, happily munching away on a delicious lunch that a loving parent had prepared just for her.

She had to exercise caution eating the solid foods, due to the worsening condition of her teeth, but aching gums or not, she luxuriated in the simple pleasure of eating a meal that her own mother had fixed.

Halfway through her lunch, Troy shuffled into the kitchen.

“There you are,” he said. His voice was edged with irritation.

She dropped her spoon into the bowl and stared at him. His eyes were rimmed in red, as if he’d been crying. Her stomach clutched.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“What’s wrong? I’ve been trying to call you for hours, Monica. Why the hell haven’t you answered your phone?”

Monica glanced around the kitchen. She didn’t remember where she had left her cell, probably upstairs somewhere. God, she felt completely out of sorts.

“I . . . I was napping.”

“All you do these days is nap. You look like shit.”

Monica bristled. “Go to hell.”