Merilee sighed. “Okay, give Mrs. Sanderson another message then. Tell her Mrs. Goldstein says let me know if you need any help with that charity deal she was talking about last Wednesday night. And tell her I’m home. All goddamn day!”

Merilee reached for her empty wine glass and shook the last drops into her mouth. Then, hit with a wave of nausea stronger than she’d had for weeks, rushed over to the kitchen sink, and threw up.

As she moved into her third trimester, my mother sank deeper into herself. She especially resented the weight piling onto her body; her one dependable asset and the only one she held in her own name. After a breakfast of Pop-Tarts and a Pepsi, she would throw a T-shirt over her bikini and escape to the beach walking the shore, pushing through water calf-deep, her shapely legs vouching for the rest of her.

While I rocked along safe and warm in the sweet water of my cocoon, she strode through the soft current, bending occasionally to pick up a shell or piece of tumbled glass and throwing it back to sea.

After countless humiliations, she’d given up trying to belong in Sidney’s world. Now, when accompanying my father to charity balls or functions, she packed a fashion magazine in her purse. The moment Sidney was caught up in conversation, she’d retreat to the car and flip through the pages by the glove compartment light until it was time to go home.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM

DAWN

DAY 16

Pierre, the night nurse, is rummaging through my things. There isn’t much to look at. A framed picture of Brett inscribed to me, a Bible left by Anna, a boom box, and an Enya CD with a Post-it Note reading “Thought she might enjoy this!” from good ol’ Nurse Dani.

With his rich dark skin, contrasting blond, curly hair and green eyes, I imagine Pierre is often quizzed on his ethnicity. From his name, I’m guessing Haitian, but he could be Jamaican or even Cajun. A fair amount of his time has clearly been spent at the gym; his thick, muscled arms pop out where the end of his sleeves. After changing my urine bag, he fiddles with Brett’s photo, tapping his finger along the frame, perhaps debating whether to take it. It would be worth a lot of money.

The door pushes open. Pierre jerks back and makes like he’s straightening the picture.

“Whoa, hey there, Flo. You’re early. It’s not even light yet.”

“Buses are running funny, don’t want to be late.” Flo, a stout African American woman enters with a square, black pocketbook squeezed under one arm. She leans over me, her breathing labored. Perspiration shines on her forehead and the fuzzy black hairs of her upper lip.

“You mean because of the ‘special assignment.’”