3. #4
Shauna is one of my mother's caregivers-fifty-something, kind eyes, always moving like she has too many things to do but still making time to be gentle. My mom has four caregivers in rotation, twelve-hour shifts that blur together like a system built to keep her stable.
They keep her alive.
I step closer, lowering my voice automatically. "How was she today?"
Shauna's expression softens into something practiced. "She's been pretty steady." She tilts her head slightly. "Slept most of the afternoon. Ate a little. No nausea. Her vitals were good."
"Any pain?"
"Not more than usual," Shauna says. "We kept her warm. You know how she gets."
I nod, stomach tightening.
I know.
I go into the hallway that leads to my mother's room before opening the door. Inside, it's warm.
Not normal warm. Chemo warm.
My mother's room has its own thermostat, and they keep it higher than the rest of the apartment because the treatments make her bones ache and her skin cold. The heat hits my face the second I step through the doorway, thick and heavy like a blanket.
The living space is quiet, tidy, soft. A throw blanket folded perfectly over the couch.
A few framed photos on the shelf-me and my mother at my high school graduation, even though I graduated early and she still cried like it was a miracle.
Me and her at my wedding, smiling too hard, Rodney's hand firm on my waist.
A picture of her younger, hair full and shiny, eyes bright, before the illness carved away pieces of her.
Shauna gestures toward the bedroom. "She'll probably be asleep for a few hours."
"Okay," I whisper.
I step into the room.
My mother lies in bed on her side, facing the window, the blankets pulled up to her shoulders. Her face is thinner than it used to be. Her cheeks hollowed. Her hair sparse beneath a soft cap. But there's still something in her-something unmistakably her-resting there even in sleep.
For a moment I just stand and stare.
Because sometimes I need to remind myself she's real. That I'm not imagining the reason I stay. The reason I swallow so much.
Her breathing is shallow but steady. The room is filled with small, quiet sounds: the hum of the heater, the faint tick of a clock, the soft whisper of a machine monitoring something I don't fully understand.
I step closer to the bed and rest my fingertips lightly on the blanket near her shoulder. Not touching her skin. Not waking her.
"Hey mom," I whisper.
She doesn't stir.
I stand there a little longer, letting the heat soak into my face, letting the sight of her settle into the part of my chest that always aches.
Then I turn away.
Because if I let myself stay too long, the grief will rise too fast. And grief is loud. Grief is messy. Grief breaks the poker face.
I leave the bedroom quietly and close the door behind me.
At the small dining table, I pull out my checkbook.
I set it flat, click my pen, and begin writing.
One check.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Five thousand each.
The numbers are familiar. Automatic.
I tear them out carefully and slide each one into an envelope I brought with me, writing names on the front in neat, deliberate letters.
Shauna.
Denise.
Maribel.
Tanya.
My hand doesn't shake.
It never does, doing this.
This is the kind of control I can afford.
I gather the envelopes, stack them neatly, and walk back toward the nurses' station where Shauna waits.
When she sees them, her eyes widen. "Naomi-"
"It's early," I say quickly, keeping my voice light, casual, like I'm handing her cookies. "I know Christmas is in two weeks, but just in case I don't get another chance to come by before then... I wanted to make sure you all had something."
Shauna's mouth falls open. "We appreciate you Naomi."
She takes the envelopes like they're delicate.
I give her a small smile. Soft. Controlled. "I appreciate you guys. Thank you so much."
Shauna sets them carefully in a drawer, then turns back to me and wraps her arms around me before I can stop her.
For a second, my body goes stiff out of instinct.
Then I let myself lean into it-just slightly. Not because I need to be held.
Because it's been so long since touch meant kindness.
Shauna pulls back, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "She loves you," she says, shaking her head. "She talks about you even when she's tired. Even when she's hurting."
I swallow, forcing my smile to stay in place.
Shauna squeezes my hands. "And listen... enjoy the White House, okay? You deserve it. You deserve all the good things."
The words hit like something sharp.
Because I can't tell her that the White House feels like a bigger cage.
I can't tell her that "deserve" isn't the word I associate with anything anymore.
So I do what I always do.
I smile.
A perfect, gentle smile that makes people think I'm grateful.
"Thank you," I say softly.
Shauna nods, satisfied, like she gave me a gift.
I step away before the expression on my face can crack.
"I'll come back soon," I add, because it's what people say.
Then I turn toward the door, walking out of the warm apartment and back into the hallway.
My phone feels heavy in my pocket.
Thursday at one.
A simple appointment.
And suddenly I want it more than I want air.