“Just look after yourself, Whitney.” She saw me frowning and became, for an instant, very soft. She cupped my wounded cheek and said, “I’m fine, really. This is normal.”

I followed her inside. She went into her bedroom and closed the door. I found some beer in the fridge and cleaning supplies under the sink, and for the next hour I scrubbed the bathroom, getting down into places where Mom couldn’t crouch, while two or three bottles disappeared. Then I did the kitchen, and only stopped my unconscious cleaning when I reached the dents in the floor. They’d been made by the stretcher when they took Dad out, decades ago. This was where he fell after the heart attack. I never understood why Mom didn’t get the floor refinished, how she could live with the feeling of the dents through the fabric of her socks. I took a calming breath, sprayed cleaner on the floor, then wiped the grime that had gathered in the dents. When I was done, it looked as if they’d wheeled him out yesterday.

3.

Mom kept napping, and now that I’d been drinking and thinking of Dad, the shade of the house felt morbid. I pictured her behind the bedroom door, waiting for me to go out, and why shouldn’t I? I only had this one night in the city, and the Lakers were in the Western Conference Finals, with Game 4 versus Sacramento being played at Staples that night. I’d reconciled myself to missing it so I could spend time with her, but now I walked out to a nearby bar.

The game had started by the time I arrived, and everyone was nervous. The Kings were leading in the series and had quickly asserted control of Game 4. I found a seat at the far end of the bar and ordered a burger and beer.

It was hard to watch. Mike Bibby of the Kings kept beating his man off the dribble. No one was adjusting to his penetration. The Lakers looked confused, disengaged. They weren’t responding to the superior ball movement. After the first quarter the Kings led by twenty, and I heard some premature chatter about how the Lakers had had a good run, that it was almost impossible to three-peat.

At halftime, the Kings held a commanding lead. I considered going home, but despite the tension of the game I felt more relaxed just sitting here drinking, my gaze dumbly fixed on the TV, than brooding in the darkness of the house. Anyway, the Lakers kept making it interesting. They’d cut the lead down before slacking off and letting it grow again.

“What do you think?” asked the man beside me.

“I think it’s not looking good.”

He bobbed his head and sipped his Bud, peering at the TV so I could take a long look at him.

“They’ll come back,” he said, then switched his gaze to me.