It’s late and I’m tired, but I put on the kettle for tea. The boys must have tuckered themselves out because there’s no bumping about overhead. Joe and Clio have long since gone to bed. My father is sleeping soundly in his chair. Even Thomas has stumbled home, grunted his good night, and is most likely irritatingly snoring away in his bed with his boots still on.
I fix a cup of tea for my mother hoping she will finally be awake. When she is, it takes me by complete surprise, and all I manage to say by way of greeting is, “Tea?”
I can tell she’s just as startled to see me, yet she breaks out in a glad smile, her expression instantly bringing me back to that long-ago day when Ethel laid curled beside her and Mary was the one holding the tea. How I had ached for a moment just like this.
She reaches out for the mug, but before she can take it, pulls her hand back to her chest as her body is wracked by coughing. I clutch the tea tightly, waiting—as I’ve done countless times—for the horrific fit to end. She hacks and hacks and hacks as if her lungs are filled with broken glass, each inhalation shredding her insides. When she finally drops her hand into her lap, I see her rag is covered in bright foamy blood.
This is the third time my mother has attempted to die. And for the first time, I realize she might succeed.