I don’t think there’s anything actually threatening her, but I can’t just run out when she seems to be so upset and fearful. I go back into her room, where she’s now sitting up, hands clasped, eyes wide open, staring grimly at the muted television. She’s changed the channel away from home improvement. Now she’s watching Forensic Files. “Mom,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “I did a little research with that nurse. You know, your chocolate guy?” Mom looks at me, waiting. Her stretchy white bandages, still wrapped around her face, make her look like an owl. An owl with two black eyes. “And you know, I really think you might have misinterpreted something.” Even in owl mode, Mom’s face sets, like it used to do when I was pleading to stay up later or explaining why I was reading Mad magazine instead of doing homework. Not what she wants to hear. I touch her arm, insisting. “Really, Mom. Don’t worry. And I’m sure I can find out what’s going on. If there’s something going on.
