The Number at the Bottom of the Page
Mom laughed when I told her about him.
“He sounds lonely,” she said from her hospital chair.
“He has Margaret.”
“Margaret gets paid to argue with him. That’s different.”
Mom had grown thinner, but she still corrected how I folded my shirts and complained when I skipped meals.
One afternoon, her doctor called while I was working.
Her latest results meant they needed to discuss another course of treatment.
I reached the hallway before my composure gave way.
I pressed my sleeve to my eyes, hoping Margaret was too far away to hear.
A hand found my shoulder.
“Go see your mother, son,” Mr. Howard said. “I’ll manage.”
Nobody had called me son in years.
When I repeated his words to Mom, she became quiet.
“What’s his full name?”
I told her.
“He’s been good to you?”
“In his own hostile way.”
She smiled and asked me to bring her a proper envelope on my next visit.
I forgot.
A week later, Margaret offered to return a sweater I’d left at the hospital.
“Mom might give you a thank-you note for Mr. Howard,” I joked.
“Then I’ll bring it home.”
I thought nothing more of it.
The hospital’s estimate arrived two days later.
After expected insurance coverage, our share of the proposed treatment could reach $10,000.
It was not a guaranteed cure.
The doctors still had questions, and a financial counselor wanted to discuss assistance.
All I saw was the number at the bottom of the page.
I spent three nights filling scraps of paper with calculations.
My savings did not come close.
Then Margaret left the safe open.
That night, $8,000 lay across my bedspread.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I pictured the second plate.
Mr. Howard trusting my arm on the stairs.
And Eleanor’s crooked slippers waiting beside an empty bed.
I had spent months becoming someone he allowed near his helpless moments.
May you like
Then I had used one of them against him.
Before sunrise, I returned the bills to their envelope while Margaret checked a grocery delivery downstairs.
