I hunched low in my seat and picked at one of the pieces of Scotch tape. Given my mother’s mood, I knew I was taking a chance opening Marva’s present, but I didn’t have the patience to wait until I was alone. Carefully, I pulled apart the wrapping and discovered a bundle of Kleenex. Inside the Kleenex was a miniature glass duck, translucent yellow with a red beak. Attached by a chain through her tail were three glass ducklings.

“Oh. It’s so cute.” I held it up to the sunlight, careful not to let the wind carry it away; traffic was moving fast, and my mother drove well above the speed limit.

“It’s cheap,” she said, glancing at me. Her kerchief had slipped. Hair danced furiously around her face. “And it’s not new, she’s had that one for years.”

I wanted to smack her, but instead, I reached over and pulled a strand of hair from where it was stuck in the corner of her mouth. I folded away the Jesus paper to bring later to Anna, then I placed the delicate duck family back in their tissue nest and pressed them deep into my front pocket. “Can we please go to a gas station? I really have to pee.”

Merilee stabbed out her cigarette. Sooty tears spilled out from under her dark glasses.

“Mom?”

I picked up her present. It was larger than mine and heavy; wrapped in some kind of anniversary paper, shiny silver and blue. I held it up to my ear and gently shook it.

“What do you think it is?” I asked, hoping to change her mood. She kept staring ahead, so I opened it. Three rocks plopped onto my lap. I picked them up and rattled them in my hand looking for the meaning in them, willing them to be kittens or sheep; something I could show to my mother to say, “See! You got a present too.” But there was no denying it. They were just rocks picked out of the dirt somewhere.

Before my mother could see, I threw them out the window then took my present from my pocket and threw it out too. I watched the little ducks fly from their tissue, skip off the tire of a pickup truck, and disappear.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM

MORNING

DAY 20

Brett steps through my door sporting a big grin like a suitor about to whisk a dozen roses from behind his back. For a second I’d almost forgotten how dazzling his smile is with those perfect white teeth and dimpled chin. I’d go weak in my knees if I could feel them.

He wears a Dodgers cap, not because he likes baseball but to cover his bald spot. With so many photographers camped around the hospital, Brett isn’t taking chances. On his last film, he used a small round hair piece pinned on top of his head like a yarmulke.