He said: honey. I didn’t know you were.
I said: where is my mother?
He said: oh. She’s.
He said: my brother and I wanted to watch the game in here because there’s a TV.
He said: I put her in the basement.
I said: what?
He said: the basement. She’s comfortable down there.
I said: this is her room, Gabriel.
He said: no it’s not.
He said it with the specific hardening of a man who has been caught and who has decided that the defense is to hold the position rather than to capitulate.
He said: it’s my room. Just like this entire house. I’m the man of the house.
He said: my brother came over and we wanted to watch football.
I did not respond.
I went to the basement door.
The basement in our house was a finished basement in the functional sense, a space that had flooring and walls, but which was not what anyone would call a bedroom in any meaningful sense.
There was no window.
There was no bathroom.
There was a laundry area and the furnace and storage.
And in the middle of it, on an air mattress on the floor, my mother.
She was asleep.
Her medications were on the floor beside the air mattress, the bottles that I had arranged carefully on the bedside table upstairs.
She was on an air mattress.
My seventy-year-old mother who was on her third week of chemotherapy, who could barely manage stairs on her good days, who had been installed in the first-floor guest room because of the proximity to the bathroom and because of the stairs.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and I looked at her.
She stirred.
She opened her eyes.
She saw me.
She said: Sara.
She said it with the specific quality of someone who is not sure if they are waking up or dreaming.
I said: Mom.
She said: you’re home early.
I said: yes.
She said: I’m sorry I’m down here.
She said it immediately.
She said: Gabriel said they needed the room. I didn’t want to cause trouble.
I said: you didn’t cause anything.
She said: Danny came and they wanted to watch the game.
