“Love you, Mom,” I whisper. I feel myself teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown. I’m not prepared to fence with Ian, and I spend an inordinate amount of time smoothing blankets and straightening things. Intently I listen for the door to close and signal his departure, but there’s nothing but silence.
Finally, I give up and head out into the small living room and kitchen area. Ian is sitting on the sofa, one leg thrown negligently over the other, looking like an autocratic ruler in charge of everything he sees. It’s a small and pitiful kingdom. We don’t have much. A couple of bookcases full of used DVDs for me and books for my mom. There’s a laptop that’s about eight years old that my mom used for work, but it’s done more time as a coaster in recent months than actual computing. I don’t use it at all, given that writing is even more painful than reading.
We have a small wooden table and two nice chairs. The furniture isn’t bad because it’s part of a set Mom had bought before she got sick, but our impoverished situation is unmistakable.
I’m too tired to be embarrassed over this. We’re doing the best that we can, and if I could get Ian to allow me to do this “job,” I can make the whole situation better. It’s painful, though, to have him looking at me and judging.
“Your mother’s lovely,” he says. His words are so unexpected that a laugh escapes me. “What?” he asks, one brow quirking upward in a query.
“I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. Ian rises and leads me over to sit beside him on the sofa. It's because I'm tired that I don't resist.
“Where’s Malcolm’s father?”
The question is unexpected. “Who knows? Far away from us. We haven’t seen him in years, and that’s a good thing.” I avoid Ian’s eyes. He’s too perceptive. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I think we only have milk and orange juice. We're eating healthy.”
“I ordered some food for us. I thought your mom might be hungry when she woke up.” He’s uninterested in a beverage.
“Ian—” I start to protest, but he raises his hand. I don’t have much energy to fight him. It feels too good to sit and rest my head on the back of the sofa.
“No. I don’t want to hear any objection. It's done.” The finality in his voice shuts me down. I don't have the energy for a fight over food.
“Fine. Why don't you tell me what you wanted from Malcolm and how best I can deliver it?”
He makes a noncommittal humming noise and is saved by a knock on the door.
No one ever knocks on your door in the city unless it’s a mad neighbor. I don’t ever talk to my neighbors. I get up to answer, but Ian beats me to the door. As if he lives here. Outside is a burly blond guy who looks as if he belongs on a beach somewhere instead of standing outside my apartment carrying bags of food with an Asian symbol on them. This isn’t ordinary Chinese take-out, I’m guessing.
“Tiny, meet Steve. Steve’s in charge of me.” Ian takes the food but doesn’t back away, leaving me two inches of space to duck under his arm—which is holding the door open—reach forward, and shake Steve’s giant hand. It’s a brisk movement, and Steve’s face is as impassive as the presidents' heads on Mount Rushmore. I can’t tell if he hates me or if he’s irritated that he’s reduced to delivering food, but there’s not a hint of “happy to meet you.”
“Um, thanks for the food,” I offer lamely.
He gives me a nod before he and Ian exchange silent words with their eyes. None of the conversation is decipherable. Maybe if I put on heels and stood up higher I’d be able to intercept a word or two. But since I’m about eight inches shorter than the both of them, I figure I’ll let them have their relative privacy—even though this is my apartment.
Unsure of whether to wake Mom up to eat or let her sleep, I pause and peek into her room. Her face looks so peaceful I decide that sleep is better than anything. Behind me I hear the door close and the locks engage. Ian’s body brushes past mine on the way to the living room. The scent of delicious peppers, ginger, and garlic trails behind him, and I follow like a puppy.
“Do you want orange juice, milk or water? Your choices haven’t magically changed since the food came,” I say, detouring into the kitchen to grab plates, silverware and napkins.
“Bring the plates,” he orders.
On the table is an assortment of boxes Ian has unpacked from the sack. Next to him is a bottle of wine. I didn’t see that delivered. “So Steve’s in charge of you? How come I don’t believe that?”