One afternoon, I’d offered to carry her groceries inside. Patricia immediately pulled the bag away and told me to wait in the car.
As she turned, I noticed a sour smell clinging to her coat and a yellow stain she’d quickly covered with her hand.
A few mornings later, I mentioned it to Nathan.
“That’s so weird,” I said.
“What?”
“That your mother never has us over. She’s always here, checking my baseboards, but she never lets us step inside her place.”
Nathan paused with one shoe only half tied.
“She likes being the guest,” he finally said. “She likes running the show.”
“Was she always like this?”
“Yeah. When I was a kid, she’d clean only the living room before guests came and shut every other door.”
“So you’ve inherited the family hospitality.”
“Apparently.”
Then he studied my face.
“You okay? You seem off.”
I hadn’t slept much that night.
Around midnight, I’d started coughing. By morning, every breath hurt and chills were running through my body.
“I’m fine.”
Nathan stood and crossed the kitchen.
“Claire.”
“I’m fine.”
He had already checked my temperature twice during the night.
The most recent reading had been 102.
“You’re staying in bed today,” he said.
“I’ll be fine. Go to work.”
“Claire, you’re shaking. Sit down.”
I sat mostly because the room had started tilting around me.
“I’ll call in,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
“No. Go to work. I’ll sleep it off.”
“Claire.”
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