She looked at me.
“I found out exactly what they’d done because I walked into her bedroom while she was changing.”
My stomach twisted.
“Nobody had told you?”
“No.”
Dad leaned forward.
“Cindy, I wasn’t trying to do that to you.”
She looked toward the bare wall.
“Then bring me my mirror.”
Dad blinked.
“No.”
Mom’s head snapped toward him.
“Excuse me?”
“Not today. You’re two days out of surgery.”
“Bring me the little mirror.”
“Cindy, you’re bruised, swollen, bandaged, and you’ve just found out they’re testing something for cancer.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t need to see this right now.”
Mom’s face changed.
“That’s what everybody told me when my mother was sick. Don’t look. Don’t ask. Don’t worry. Let somebody else handle it.”
Nobody spoke.
Mom wiped her cheek.
“I am 70 years old, Brad. Bring me my mirror.”
Dad left the room.
When he returned, he was carrying the small oval vanity mirror.
Its silver-colored frame had darkened with age, and there was a chip in one corner.
I’d seen it on Mom’s dresser my entire life.
Dad held it out.
Mom took it.
Linda and I helped her adjust her robe enough to see what she wanted without disturbing the dressings.
