“Why is it so dark in here?” Mrs. Nickelsen asked. “Open those curtains.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I smell bacon.”

“I cooked for Dad this morning.”

“That smell. I don’t think I could eat that.”

“Are you hungry?”

Ronny walked into the room. Ben was watching him. Mrs. Nickelsen asked, “Did you sleep good?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mom—”

“I heard you, son. I think maybe I could eat a piece of toast.”

“Is that all?”

“You know I don’t want much of a morning.”

“I don’t guess you want any coffee?”

“The doctor says I can’t have coffee anymore. To tell you the truth I don’t miss it as much as I thought I would.”

In pictures scattered around the house she was a tall woman with a hint of the stately in the way she carried herself, large soulful eyes, a mouth set in a perpetually sad line, a penchant for wearing flowered prints. She had a face a person would respond to, a spirit one would find easy to know, or at least this was the promise of the pictures. There was a slump of defeat to her shoulders, but her eyes hinted she was stubborn and would never much give in.

The same woman lay here now, the fine bones of her skull almost luminous, her skin translucent, the sad turn of the mouth suddenly become bemused, the soulful eyes peering deeply into every shadow and corner. A knitted shawl over her shoulders. She was more present today than yesterday, trying to sit up, eyes alert and open, turning from one part of the room to the other.

“Do you want that bed cranked up some, Mrs. Nickelsen?” Ronny asked.

“That’d be nice. I do feel like sitting up higher today. Overcast hadn’t burned off yet, can’t tell what kind of weather it’s going to be. Listen to those birds.”

A high flurry of trills and piercing calls was sounding from outside, vaguely overhead. Gray light suffused the room and the backyard, muting the colors of the grass and flowers. When it lit her face the lines of her skin were softened, and she looked younger, happier.

“It’s that big pecan tree in the backyard next door,” she said. “I love to hear the birds in it.”

Ronny moved to the chair next to her. She was very different from his own mother, who was sharp in voice and personality, tight energy bound into her body from head to toe, as if she were one big coiled spring. Mrs. Nickelsen was gentle and subdued where Ronny’s mom was strident and brazen. But there was some core of softness that they shared, a feeling that either could be hurt, easily, and maybe the sense that they had been.

“Where are your parents, Ronny?” Mrs. Nickelsen asked.

“My mom just moved to Nevada to get remarried. My dad lives in Richmond and works for a power plant. I really never spent that much time with my dad.”

“Do you like the man your mother is marrying?”