Page 66 of An Immaculate Deception

My blood drains from my limbs. I don’t know what that is, but it sounds dreadful.

“She never spoke another word. Unable to take care of herself. Needed help even to eat meals and drink water.”

I sit on the straw-backed chair by the window, watching Mother sleep. She lies not on her back but on her side, and I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest. That is how I know it is a normal sleep. Still, every so often I get up to reassure myself by placing my hand in front of her mouth until I can feel her breath on it.

I desperately need a cigarette, but I am afraid the smoke may rouse her, or irritate her lungs.

I refuse to believe that Mother forgot me.

She never would. Doctor Lobo does not know her. Perhaps she does have memory loss, and in her disorientation is confusing me with my father. But she must remember me in some way, I simply cannot believe otherwise.

The next time I rise to place my hand before her nose, to reassure myself that she is not dead, her eyes flutter open. She catches me with my hand by her face. I step back, startled.

She rubs her eyes, then pushes herself into a sitting position, groaning and grimacing.

“Are you well?” I ask.

I avoid the temptation to call her Mother. I am not sure what she remembers, and if Doctor Lobo’s warnings are true, then she could fall into a permanent stupor. I cannot allow anything bad to happen when she is only just returned. I must be careful in the extreme.

Once seated, she looks up at me. She pulls the covers over herself with modesty.

“I’m not dressed,” she says, averting her eyes.

“I apologize,” I mutter.

But she is dressed. She is wearing a simple cotton dress.

I consider this, unnerved. She is not dressed, perhaps, to entertain guests…But I am not a guest.

I take another step back. I tell her I’ve left clothes for her, and the servants will bring water for a bath. That she’s been asleep for a couple hours.

“You’re talking!” she calls out, as though only just realizing.

I’m baffled. Why shouldn’t I be talking? I don’t know what to say in response. She continues to regard me in silence. Her eyes widen slightly and her posture straightens.

I see it now. The look on her face, the shy manner in which she regards me. It’s not like her.

Is she seeing my father instead of me?

The thought makes me want to retreat, to put space between us, but I remain frozen in place.

I feel a little afraid of her, as though I’m looking at a stranger.

“You weren’t talking much before,” she adds. “It just seems like you’re better, that’s all.”

Better? Is she referring to the fact that I was crying earlier?

“I was…” shocked to see you alive. “…happy to see you well.”

I hesitate. I remember Doctor Lobo’s warnings. I can’t speak freely without knowing for certain who she thinks she is speaking to.

“Doctor Lobo says you are recovering well, too,” she says.

Recovering? My stomach sinks.

“He said that?” I feel a surge of irritation at Doctor Lobo for feeding her delusions.

“Wouldn’t you say so?”