on?” She gazed in my direction. “Who’s she?”
Mr. Tate rose from his chair, a look of genuine concern and guilt on his face. “No one, honey. Go back to bed, okay?”
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Lily said, pulling on the ruffle of the woman’s nightgown.
“Mommy’s tired now, Lily,” Mr. Tate said. “Go play, and I’ll make you a sandwich in a few minutes.”
“But I don’t want a sandwich,” Lily said, stomping her foot on the ground, “mac and cheese, mac and cheese!”
“I don’t have time for that, sweetheart,” Mr. Tate said.
“I do,” I said.
All three of them looked over at me, understandably stunned.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. I had no doubt about who was on the other side of the door.
Sit in his vehicle and wait, my ass.
Mrs. Tate gripped the side of the door so tight I thought if she let go, her knees would buckle and she’d tumble to the ground.
“Miss Monroe, I’m sorry to ask,” Mr. Tate said, “especially after the way I’ve treated you today, but do you think you could help my wife back to her room?” He pointed toward the hallway. “It’s the last door on the left.”
I nodded, looked at Lily, and said, “I’m going to take your mommy back to her room, and when I’m done, we’ll see about making some macaroni and cheese, okay?”
The idea of a stranger offering to cook a meal was apparently too much for Lily to comprehend. She covered her eyes with her hands, pretending I wasn’t there, and then backed out of the room, her Dora the Explorer slippers bouncing up and down as she turned and ran down the hall. I didn’t blame her one bit.
I swung my arm around Mrs. Tate who clung to the door jamb at first, not willing to let go. Once she realized I wasn’t going away, she released her grip and sagged into me. We advanced down the hallway until we both stood next to her bed. I pulled the covers down so she could settle in, but she didn’t. She just stood there, staring at me. I didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything.
I could tell she’d internalized so much over the past six months, she didn’t know how to let her emotions out. I opened my mouth to offer some kind of sentiment and she slapped me—hard—across my left cheek. Then she slapped me again across my right. I should have been stunned, but I wasn’t. I got it. I wrapped my hands around her wrists, holding them out in front of her, making sure not to grip them too tightly. She didn’t know who I was, and she didn’t care. I was there because of Savannah, and I wasn’t doing anything. No one was, not in her eyes. She was in pain, and she wanted everyone else to feel it too.
I looked at her and said the only thing I could say. “I’m sorry.”
A wave of shame and regret spread across her face once she realized what she’d done. My face was hot. It felt like I’d burned my cheeks after sitting in the sun for too long. For a woman as frail as she was, she knew how to deliver a slap with an intense sting.
Mrs. Tate sniffled and then the tears came. First it was just a few, but by the time I released her wrists, she was crying uncontrollably. I just stood there, watching her stick her right hand in her pocket and pull it out, over and over again, like she had no control over her own limb. Every time it went in, she touched something before pulling it out again, but I couldn’t see what it was.
I helped Mrs. Tate into bed and then found some tissue so she could wipe her eyes. I held it out to her. She clutched something in her right hand. It looked like a piece of paper no bigger than the size of a mini notebook. She pressed it against her chest and began rocking back and forth, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. I tried to get her to lie down, but she shook her head furiously. I backed off.
When the rocking slowed, her eyelids began to open and shut, each time getting heavier until they no longer opened. I pulled the blankets up to her neck, making sure to fold the sheet over the top. Then I reached for the paper that had slipped out of her hand. It was a photograph of her and