Thomas pretends to read a National Geographic. I buy two really bad coffees from the machine down the hall and neither of us can stand more than a few swallows. Despite the Prilosec, a rodent with razor-sharp teeth dines on the lining of my stomach.

An elderly man shuffles to the couch and settles. Soon after, a young couple in typical Pacific Northwest fleece, jeans, and waterproof boots gets comfortable in the far corner. They hold hands and talk quietly. I don’t want to know anything about any of them. An hour later, Dr. Bernstein, early fifties, bald, kind eyes, and his resident, Dr. Shayghani, at least ten years his junior, dark hair in a ponytail halfway down her back, step into the waiting room.

“Mr. Holmes?” Dr. Bernstein asks.

Thomas shoots to his feet. “Right here.”

“Your mother’s surgery went very well. She’s in recovery now. You should be able to visit in about an hour. A nurse will come get you once she’s been transferred to a room.”

“When will she be able to go home?”

“Given her age and that she lives alone,” Dr. Shayghani says, “a social worker will be in to talk with you. They will suggest that your mother transition to an assisted health facility for a week or two, until she’s able to care for herself.”

“Thank you,” Thomas says. The surgeons move on and he turns to me. “About before . . .”

I shrug. “You’re worried about your mom.”

“That’s no excuse. It’s just . . . I was afraid you were going to open that red door and say my mom was on the other side. We haven’t been close for a while, but still . . .”

A burst of pure happiness fizzes through my body. He believes it’s possible. “I wouldn’t have done that, called to her, unless you asked.”

Finally meeting my gaze, Thomas says, “I just didn’t want you to go through the motions.”

The worst blows, even when they’re not intended to harm, are the ones we don’t expect.

THIRTY-SIX

Thomas

Mom looks so much smaller. Her skin tone matches the hospital bed’s dull white sheets, and an IV snakes from the back of her hand, which is mottled with an ugly, purple bruise where she’s bled beneath the skin. She still dyes her hair brown, but patches of gray show at her temples. Her skin is dappled with irregular reddish spots, and deep lines seam her cheeks. Folds of loose skin have replaced a once pronounced jawline and now connect it directly to a saggy neck. She’s lightly snoring.

Uncomfortable in my own skin, I cross to the window, watch gun- metal clouds travel across an even darker sky. Levi came to get me a few minutes after Sylvie went down to the cafeteria to see if she could find something edible for our lunch. On the way to Mom’s room, he asked me to thank her.

“For what?”

He pretended to read notes on the clipboard he carried. “I’ve been . . . Basically, I need to get into a program before my son is born.” Nervously, he scratched at the long-sleeved shirt he wore under his scrubs. I saw the swirl of a colorful tattoo beneath the white fabric and caught a glimpse of what looked like a horse’s black legs.