For a stomachache?”
“For pain you can’t hide anymore.”
Her eyes flashed then.
Not anger exactly.
Embarrassment.
Fear wearing anger’s coat.
“I don’t want another bill,” she said quietly.
That was the first honest thing she had said all week.
I softened, but I did not back down.
“I’d rather fight a bill than sit here wondering why you can’t stand up straight.”
She looked away toward the window over the sink.
Outside, the little flag on her porch moved in the morning breeze.
“Your father would have said I’m being ridiculous,” she said.
“Dad would have put you in the car yesterday.”
That ended the argument.
She muttered the whole way to my SUV, but she let me help her down the front steps.
She locked the door twice.
She checked for her insurance card three times.
She told me, once we were in the driveway, that I drove too fast even before I had started the engine.
That was my mother too.
Terrified, in pain, and still correcting everybody else.
At the hospital, the waiting room was already crowded.
A man in a work jacket slept with his chin on his chest.
A teenager held an ice pack to his wrist.
A young mother bounced a baby with one arm while filling out forms with the other.
The air smelled like hand sanitizer, old coffee, and the paper from vending machine cups.
My mother sat beside me with her purse hugged to her stomach.
The intake nurse called her name at 9:18 AM.
That time stayed in my head for reasons I did not understand yet.
The nurse asked the usual questions.
Name.
Age.
Medications.
When did symptoms start?
Where was the pain?
Was there nausea?
Was there fever?
My mother answered like she was apologizing for being difficult.
