Arun Gill had blushed and apologized profusely once I corrected him, flapping his Bambi-like eyelashes in confusion. After he hurried off across the street, hoisting the microwave in his arms, I told myself it had been an easy enough mistake for him to have made. After all, this was the kind of thing neighbours did all the time — observe a person’s life in a half-assed way from across the street and make the attendant half-assed assumptions. And I supposed Trevor had been around a lot in the last few months of Irene’s life and likely very visible, standing out as the lone man amongst the home care ladies, helping Irene out like any good, devoted son should and would. While I, her actual daughter, had been in another city, doing nothing. If that made me feel weird, or uncomfortable, it was really no surprise. It was my guilty conscience twinging.

I’d expected Jessica to smirk along with me at the idea of someone taking Trevor for my sibling, but when I told her what Mr. Gill had assumed, she just seemed befuddled by it. “Ugh, Karen,” she said.

“Trevor and my mother clearly had a little deal going on,” I explained. “I think he was helping her out around the house, going above and beyond. Mowing her lawn, cleaning out her gutters, that sort of thing. I mean, she gave him a key. Which you’re not supposed to do with home care, but I think it’s fairly common with the less able-bodied clients.”

Jessica looked up at me then and I was not able to get her off the subject of the key for the rest of the afternoon.

“He’s not,” I said to Jessica now, as I swept, “the kidnapping guy. You know what he is? He’s lonely. He’s just a lonely person. Hence the flirting,” I added. I threw a wink at Jessica, cocking my head with a quick, actorly flourish, the way Trevor had, as if he’d been mugging for a TV audience.

“That wasn’t flirting,” said Jessica. “I don’t know what that was.”

“He’s one of those guys who just needs to feel useful to someone,” I explained. “He wants to help. He wants to be able to swoop in and save the day, like . . . Superman.”

Jessica absorbed this comparison. “Ok, but get the key back,” she said.

“We kind of said goodbye,” I told her. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again. And we’re selling the house anyway.”

“Karen,” said Jessica, “it might take months to sell the house.”

“You know, I think he hated taking the TV,” I reflected. “He, like, hated it. He was angry about it.”

“Because,” said Jessica — and I knew what was coming because she’d said it a few times already — “it was nuts of you to give it to him.”

“But that’s not why,” I said. “It’s because he doesn’t want to feel like he’s been paid back. He doesn’t want to be recompensed.”