As soon as I opened the door to our house, I could tell something was wrong. Mother was crouching half-in, half-out of the stairway, as though she had frozen on her way up the stairs. She waited by the railing, twirling her hair with her fingers. When I came near, she covered her face and shrunk back against the wall. The room smelled horrible.

One time a mouse died behind the stove. Daddy said there was nothing to do about the smell but wait until the body dried out. Until then, all we could do was breathe through our mouths and hope it would all be over soon. The first few days were the worst. And then the smell faded. Maybe another mouse had died in our kitchen.

“It’s me,” Mother said, finally from her dark corner.

She straightened her body so I could see.

“Oh, Mother,” I said.

“It was the fried salami,” she muttered. “I needed to get it out.”

“You made yourself throw up?”

“That salami was infected. Now I have AIDS.”

“People don’t catch AIDS from salami,” I told her.

“How do you know?” Mother whispered, trembling.

“Because it makes no sense.”

“That’s not a reason. I ate the virus. I put it into my mouth.”

“Mother,” I said. “Listen to me.”

“I should have recognized the signs. The hemorrhoids. The sores. Each slice was filled with them. I tried to get them out. But now it’s all over the house.”

“Mother.”

“Toby’s salami did me in. Call hospice. I’m ready to go.” She held herself and rocked, miserably.

“Mother, please. Let’s get you in the bath. The salami didn’t have AIDS. I promise.”

“But how do you know?” Her voice trembled.

“Come on,” I said. “You’ll feel better after a bath.”

I reached out for her.

“Don’t touch me,” she said.

“It’s okay. Look. I’ll put on latex gloves first.”

I found the box of disposables under the sink and snapped them onto my hands. When I touched her again, it was the latex and not my fingertip that slid against her murky sleeve and held her damp hand. I walked first, stopping at every step to make sure she was making her way. One step and then a rest. Another step and then a rest. She grasped my fingers.

I helped her undress.

She sat on the toilet while I ran the bath.

I turned both faucets on full force.

“Only use hot water,” she said. “It needs to be scalding to do any good.”

I nodded and turned off the cold.

Pretty soon, the air in the bathroom was steamy.

“Are you sure the salami didn’t have AIDS?” she asked, shivering on the toilet.

“Yes, Mother.”

“How sure are you?”

“99.9999 percent,” I said.

“Why not 100 percent? I thought you said you were sure. Any percent except 100 means you have doubts. How sure are you? Completely sure, or not completely sure?”

“Completely sure.”

“Put in six caps of Clorox,” Mother ordered.

I did.

The scent of bleach swirled in the air.

“So you’re sure?”

“Yes,” I said again, watching the chemicals dance.

“It is a pretty strange idea, I guess.”

I turned to look at her. She was sitting on the toilet trying to smile.

“I think you were just upset,” I said.

“I was upset,” she said.

“Because I was mean to you when Toby came. And then you made yourself throw up.”

“Because I thought the salami had AIDS?”

“Right.”

“So you would feel sorry for me?”

“Maybe.” I touched the water with the underside of my wrist. It was ready.

“Put in another two caps of Clorox.”

I did what she said.

Mother stepped one foot and then the other foot into the tub. She lowered herself down, leaned against the back of the tub, and slid into the water up to her chin.

“So, do you?” she asked.

“Do I what?”

“Do you feel sorry for me?”

I looked down at my mother’s body.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good,” said Mother. “Because I have been through a lot.”

“Yes, Mother.” I sighed. “You have been through a lot.”

“And so have you. You lost both your father and your mother.”

The bleach twisted and twirled. It made my eyes sting.

“Did you mean it when you said you would rather be in a foster home than here in our house with me?”

“No,” I told her. “I didn’t mean it.”

My words rang like lies.

“Good,” said Mother. “Because if you meant that, it would be really horrible.”

“Yes,” I said. “It would be.”

Mother took the bristle brush from its hook on the side of the tub. She started with her arm, scrubbing with quick, hard strokes.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” Mother asked.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I’m just tired.”

I turned my face away. I could smell the Clorox dancing and hear the sound of water lapping against her skin and the rasp of Mother’s breathing as she scrubbed all the germs away.

When it was over, I brought her a clean white nightgown from the hook in the hall and draped it over the edge of the sink. Then I held her elbow as she stepped from the tub, one candlestick leg and then the other.

I used a clean white towel to dry her. I wiped the water from her face. She smiled at me. Serene. Clean. Mother closed her eyes and leaned her face into my hand. Then I climbed on top of the closed toilet and lowered the white gown over her head. The fresh cotton smelled like morning. It made her look like an angel.

“I feel better,” she whispered.

“Good,” I said.

“Thank you, June Bug.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes. I heard you. You said, ‘Thank you.’ ”

“I meant it,” Mother said. “I really meant it. I am grateful for you.”

“Okay,” I said.

“You are the only person in the world who understands me.”

I looked at her. She was so fragile, a breath could break her.

Mother took a step toward me. She pulled my head onto her shoulder and stroked my hair. She hugged me, her fingers moving across my back.

“Come on,” Mother whispered into my hair. “I want to show you something.”

I followed her into our room. She took out her cello and sat down on the stool.

“Did you know which movement was Daddy’s favorite?”

“The Prelude?”

“No,” Mother said. “He loved the Sarabande best. Because even though the tempo is slow, it always seems to go by too fast. Like a comma, he always said. Or a sigh.”

“Or his life.”

“Yes.” Mother agreed, smiling weakly. “Like his life. Like all of our lives, I guess.”

She began to play, drawing her bow across the strings.

The Sarabande is woven with chords and double-stops. It seemed she was playing three parts at once, a triangle of voices. Ghosts singing valentines to each other. I imagined that Daddy was the melody and Mother and I were the bass notes underneath, reaching for him but never quite touching.

Remember me. Remember me. Remember me, his notes pleaded.

How could I forget you? Mother’s notes assured him, strong and resonant at the bottom.

I’m sorry I wasn’t enough, my notes whispered in the middle, almost unheard, ashamed of what they needed to say. I was cruel on the day you died. I didn’t have the chance to apologize. I love you.

Sometimes the notes were so close together, they seemed to kiss each other, but then the melody stepped away from the bass notes, moved off down the road on its own. Goodbye. Goodbye. Faded into the distance.