I wanted to leave, to move out to keep her safe from me, from what was in me, but how could I have told her any of that? How could I have said, “Hey, I’m a weird kind of vampire (as opposed to the regular kind) and I haven’t been doing it on purpose, but I’ve been feeding on you so it’s my fault you’re sick, and now that you have cancer, I’m going to get my own place and leave you alone”? It was already too late anyway. It was. (I must believe that. There is no other option.) As Mom became more ill, she asked me, as sheepish as a child admitting she was afraid of the dark, to sleep on the couch in the adjoining living room. It would make her feel better knowing I was close by, and I could leave the light on out there and read or work on my book while she slept, she didn’t mind. I couldn’t say no. I could not say no. (I must believe that. There is no other option.)

When she slept, her breathing was an excruciatingly wet sound, a foot being pulled out of pond muck, and each night the foot sank deeper. I stole that from her too. Now I must keep it forever.

In the morning I would ask her if she slept any better because I was supposed to ask. I already knew the answer. She said the nights were hard, and it felt like she slept with a mountain on her chest.

I cut down my hours at Newbury Comics to part-time so I could drive her into Boston for inpatient treatment. On the drives she thanked me. Said I was a good son. She asked if I remembered going into Boston for my many back appointments and the surgery, and she talked about how worried and scared she was for me, and she was even more worried when I returned home from the hospital. She would then talk about dropping me off at college and how worried and scared she was for me, then, too, but in a different way. She talked about the past on those drives, as though it was all we had.

When she was still able to live at home, her friends and my aunt stopped by a few times each week, bringing food and books and hats. I let Mom have her time with them alone. I didn’t hover. I retreated upstairs, into my tower, so I wouldn’t hear them be well-meaning and tell her she looked good and how strong she was. I still heard them say it all, though. And I cried when I heard Mom say she was trying, then a few weeks later she said she was tired, and then, eventually, she said, simply, “I’m ready.”

On the nights it was just the two of us, we ate dinner together. She ate less and less with each meal. Then we watched TV until she fell asleep, which didn’t take long. I would pull blankets over her, roll her onto her side without waking her, hoping she could breathe better.