“She made me a sling, and she fed me every meal and brushed my teeth. I had to stop her from following me into the toilet to wipe me up. And I didn’t care: She could have broken both of my arms if she’d only explained the photos to me, or left them with me so that I could go on investigating them, but she did neither. She hardly spoke a word to me.”
She resettled herself against the pillows, then pulled him back against her again and plumped his head against her breasts.
“Are you falling in love with me?” she said.
He startled. The way she said it, she didn’t sound like a young adult, she sounded like a small child.
“Mimi—” he began, then stopped himself. “I don’t think so. I mean, I like you—”
“Good,” she said. “No falling in love, all right?”
Auntie died six months later. She keeled over on the staircase on her way up to the apartment, and I heard her moaning and thrashing out there. I hauled her up the stairs with my good arm, and she crawled along on her knees, making gargling noises.
I got her laid out on the rug in the living room. I tried to get her up on the sofa, but I couldn’t budge her. So I gave her pillows from the sofa and water and then I tried tea, but she couldn’t take it. She threw up once, and I soaked it up with a tea towel that had fussy roses on it.
She took my hand and her grip was weak, her strong hands suddenly thin and shaky.