Chapter 6: Mother's Kitchen

I did not wait until tomorrow.

I asked the doctor for copies of everything and she printed them without a word.

In the parking lot I texted my mother, "Coming now."

She answered with a heart.

My mother's house sat on a hill above the river, white brick and black shutters, with a flag by the door.

My father had built it the year the dealership turned its first million.

He had died in that house, in the bedroom at the top of the stairs, when I was twenty-one.

She had never moved out.

She opened the door before I knocked.

"Gavin, you look dreadful."

"I need to talk to you."

"Of course you do. Come into the kitchen, I'm making tea."

She wore a camel cardigan and her good pearls, on a Saturday, at home.

My mother always dressed for whoever was coming.

I followed her into the kitchen and put the manila folder on the island.

She glanced at it and kept pouring tea.

The silver kettle shook very slightly.

It was the only thing in the room that shook.

"I got Milly's school picture," she said brightly. "She did that thing with her lip."

"Mom."

"I put it on the mantel with the others."

"Mom. Look at the folder."

She set the kettle down and finally looked.

She read the clinic's letterhead.

She did not touch the pages.

"I see," she said.

"That's all you're going to say?"

"What would you like me to say?"

"That it's wrong. That there's been a mistake."

"There hasn't been a mistake."

She said it the way she announced the price of a truck.

My vision went white at the edges.

"You signed it," I said.

"I did."

"You told them I knew."

"You were twenty-six and half dead, Gavin."

She folded her hands on the island.

"You'd just lost a testicle and half your hair. You were crying in the hospital bed because the chemo made you sick."

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