“It was late afternoon and your mom still in her nightgown and there was some Heinz on the front and her breasts are leaking, making two round stains that got bigger and bigger as we speak. I am thinking she must have ten children. Even my mother never look like that! She take me into the house and I am thinking, well now, I am going to meet all these screaming little monsters. But there you were, lying asleep in a bassinet. Two weeks! Just born! Little baby, and you are sleeping peaceful. I ask your mom ‘where are the rest of the children?’ and she tell me, ‘This is it. You’re looking at her.’ And then she burst into tears.

“Your poor mommy. I am thinking now she must have been having postpartum. She sit me down on that ugly orange and yellow sofa, you remember? And she is supposed to be interviewing me, but instead, she is begging me to stay. ‘When can you start, Anna? —How much can we pay you? —What days off?’ Never even a look at my agency paper even though I held it out to her.

“Now, I should say I took the job because your poor mama needed me and because I fell in love with you. I did, but that came later.

“Your mom took me to the maid’s quarters over the garage. The wallpaper was peeling and the carpets moldy, but in the bedroom, there is the window where when you lean to the side you see a bit of the ocean. Remember? The ocean, that’s what did it for me. From that room, I saw the waves.”

Anna finishes washing my chest, lays the cloth in the plastic bowl on my bed, stands, reties my hospital gown, and gently places my head back on the pillow. She pulls the covers up to my neck and tucks them at my sides. Removing her jacket, she folds it on the chair, unlaces her tennis shoes, and slides them under the bed. Then she climbs up and lies down with her head next to mine. Anna traces the line around my ventilator with one finger. Inhale. Exhale. We breathe together.

“From the first day, I see they are unhappy. The, what you call, tense-ness between them? Terrible. Your mother, when she drink, she say terrible things. Not just to your dad.” She strokes my hair. I inhale the musky scent of her—never perfumed. The one part she hasn’t changed.