Chapter 7: The Results
Nathan picked her up at eight o'clock exactly.
I know because he texted me when he arrived at her house and I was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with coffee I wasn't really drinking.
I'd offered again to come.
Patricia had said she'd prefer it was just Nathan this time.
I understood.
Some things need to be faced in the smallest possible circle first.
I went to work.
I sat through a nine o'clock meeting and a ten-thirty call and I answered emails and I watched the clock.
Nathan texted at 11:14.
*Out of the appointment.
Driving Mom home.
Will call soon.*
I read it three times.
He called at 11:52, when I was standing in the hallway outside my office with the door half-closed.
"The irregular rhythm is real," he said.
"But it's manageable.
She doesn't need surgery.
They're starting her on medication and she'll go back in three months for a follow-up."
I exhaled against the wall.
"She's okay?"
"She's okay.
She cried in the car.
She didn't want to but she couldn't help it." A pause.
"I haven't seen her cry since Dad's funeral."
"How are you?"
"Relieved.
Really relieved." His voice was steadier than I expected.
"She asked about you.
In the car, after.
She said she hoped you weren't sitting at home worrying."
I looked at the ceiling.
"Tell her I was absolutely not sitting at home worrying," I said.
He laughed.
It was a short laugh, a little rough at the edges, but real.
"She wants to have dinner," he said.
"The three of us.
She said she'll cook.
Next Sunday if you're willing."
I thought about the soup.
Twenty minutes on low.
Don't boil it.
"Tell her yes," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Yes, Nathan."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Thank you."
"Go take care of your mother," I said.
"I'll see you tonight."
I went back into my office and closed the door and sat down at my desk and didn't do anything for about two minutes.
Just sat.
Then I opened my email and got back to work.
Sunday came with grey skies and the smell of something roasting from the moment we walked through Patricia's front door.
She was in the kitchen.
An apron over her good blouse.
The table already set.
"Sit down," she said, without turning around.
"It's almost ready."
Nathan sat.
I sat.
The kitchen smelled like rosemary and garlic and something sweet underneath — carrots, maybe, or parsnips.
"Can I help with anything?" I asked.
"You can pour the water," she said.
I found the pitcher in the refrigerator and filled the glasses.
Patricia carried the roasting dish to the table herself, set it down, and pulled off the lid.
Steam rose between us.
She sat down across from me.
For a moment nobody moved.
Then she picked up the serving spoon and held it out toward me — not toward Nathan, toward me — and said, "You first."
It was a small thing.
The smallest possible thing.
May you like
But I understood what it meant.
I took the spoon.
