“Bring me a phone charger. And clean clothes.”
She arrived that afternoon with both, along with food I could actually manage to eat.
She didn’t ask about the party.
She sat with me while Maya slept.
My mother came to the hospital the next day.
My father followed her into the waiting area carrying flowers too large for the small vase beside Maya’s bed.
I met them outside her room.
Mom looked exhausted, but the first thing she said was, “You need to explain those accounts.”
“How is Maya?” I asked.
Her mouth tightened.
“Of course we’re worried about her.”
“Then ask.”
My father looked past me toward the room.
“How is she?”
“Recovering from major surgery. Frightened. In pain. We don’t know everything yet.”
He lowered the flowers.
For a moment, I thought we might finally have the conversation we should have had the night before.
