Page 46 of The Scientist
“Not really,” I said with a half-shrug. “I think he might be tolerating me a little better now.”
She was about to say something when a look of slight discomfort came across her face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” she said. But then she closed her eyes and squirmed in her seat a little.
“Mom, tell me,” I pressed.
“I’m just a little queasy is all.”
I shot up out of my seat and walked over to the nurse's station to let her know.
“She’s going to get some medicine for you,” I said, sitting back down next to her, taking her hand, and rubbing my thumb over the back of it.
Nurse Amber came back and hung a bag of medicine, hooking it up to mom’s IV. “This should start working soon,” she said, and I thanked her.
My mom kept her eyes closed, probably trying to stave off the nausea.
“What can I do?” I asked helplessly.
“Sing one of my favorites,” she said in a quiet voice without opening her eyes.
I used to do that all the time for her when I was a kid when she was feeling sad or ill. She always said it made her feel better. I thought about it for a second and decided on“Moon River”fromBreakfast at Tiffany’s.
I started to sing softly, pulling my chair closer to hers and stroking her hand. She kept her eyes closed, but the tension around them seemed to slowly dissolve after a few minutes. When I finished“Moon River,” I went straight into“Let It Be”by the Beatles. She opened her eyes midway through and watched me finish out the song.
“Better?” I asked.
“I should say no so you keep going, but yes. It’s much better.”
“Good,” I told her, smiling.
“That was lovely, dear,” I heard Mary say next to us.
“You have a beautiful voice,” her husband added. “Next time a little louder, please. We’re not spring chickens over here.” He winked and I smiled at them, nodding in agreement, even though I was hoping there wouldn’t be a next time.
I continued to watch her closely for the rest of the infusion, looking for any other side effects, but nothing else happened as she chatted happily with our neighbors. When it was finished, we said goodbye to Mary and Phil and walked down to the lobby.
I didn’t know what I was expecting to find as I looked her over. She didn’t appear any different as far as I could tell, maybe a little tired, but nothing that seemed overtly worrisome. She didn’t say much as I drove back to her house, and I kept glancing over at her.
“Stop doing that,” she said a few minutes into the drive.
“What?”
“You keep staring at me,” she complained. “You look like that kid that was always popping up behind Helga Pataki.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for you to hand over your chewing gum so I can finish my closet shrine.”
“Is that why you won’t let me go anywhere near your closet?”
“No, it’s because you steal all my shit.”
“What have I stolen?” she said, putting on an air of offense.
“How about that pink Banana Republic sweater?” I accused. “Not only was it stolen, but it was also damaged. Forensics concluded that it was pizza sauce. I should have you charged with theft and vandalism.”
“I would get off on a technicality because you didn’t get your facts straight. It was actually spaghetti sauce,” she said as we pulled into the driveway.