But even with that, even with the evidence of her illness etched across her skin in the thinness of her cheeks and arms, there was still strength there. There was still knowledge. There was a sense that while she’d been beaten down, she was not gone yet. Even without knowing a thing about her, I knew she was a fighter, and even though she was losing the fight, she was giving it all she could. I admired her for it, but part of me also hated her for it given that if she had that much tenacity, how much of Vince’s life had she made a living hell after he’d come out? What did she do to him that made him flinch every time his parents were mentioned?
I had pity, yes. I had sympathy. I had concern. But I also had anger. And resentment. I was mad that she could even consider, even entertain the idea of thinking of someone as beautiful as her son as deserving of her scorn. I remembered back, seeing her on the news, standing next to her husband, waving out to the crowd shortly after he’d won the election. It was a narrow victory. Vince had been nowhere in sight. This fueled me, though I knew it shouldn’t. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been watching the same thing that day. What had he been thinking? What had to have been going through his head?
“Hello,” she said evenly. “Haven’t seen you here before.”
“No,” I said. “I guess you wouldn’t have.”
“Are those for me?” she asked, pointing to the flowers.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“They’re lovely. Can you put them near the window? They should do fine there with the sunlight that comes in during the afternoon.”
I did as I was told, not sure of what to say. I fiddled with the flowers more than I should have, trying to stop my hands from shaking as I processed what I wanted to say. It didn’t seem right to launch into some kind of tirade. I didn’t want to upset her and make things any worse. Someone dying in a hospital does not need the added stress of a tyrannical speech that’ll benefit no one, even if it would get things off my chest.
“You’re not a flower-delivery man, are you,” she said in such a way that was not a question.
“No, ma’am,” I said, glancing at her shyly. She was pretty. So pretty. Even with how much had been taken from her, she was beautiful.
Lori didn’t look angry or confused, merely inquisitive. “You’re not one of my husband’s staffers. I’d have seen you before, unless he’s hired someone new out of the blue. Which could always be a possibility. Lord knows he doesn’t tell me everything. But that doesn’t seem quite right either.”
“I don’t work for your husband,” I said. “I—”
“And,” she said, overriding me, “you’re obviously not a reporter because you’d have been a bit more aggressive by now, asking questions, snapping photographs, inquiring about the cancer or what I thought about my husband’s support of cutting health-care benefits and how ironic it is that I am where I am now.”
I was embarrassed. “How are you feeling?” I asked. “That should have been the first thing out of my mouth. I sometimes forget my manners, your majesty. Er. Your grace? First Lady Taylor? Man, I don’t even know what to call you. Your highness? No, that would be if you were a queen. Well, not that you couldn’t be a queen, because you totally could. From what I’ve seen of you on TV, you’ve got the whole parade-float princess wave thing down pat. You know, elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, that whole thing.” I demonstrated for her in case she didn’t know. I was surprised I didn’t spontaneously combust given how flaming I was being. I dropped my arm immediately and tucked my hands behind me so that I wouldn’t feel the need to princess wave at her anymore. Probably not the best way to start things.
“Well,” she said. “If you’re not a staffer, and you don’t deliver flowers, and you’re not a reporter, and you obviously know who I am, then there’s only one person you can be.” She said this last with a small smile on her face.
Uh-oh. “And. Uh. Who is that?”
“You must be Paul. Paul Auster, I think it was?”
I groaned. “The fact that you know who I am after two minutes of me walking into the room and telling you how to wave while rambling at you does not bode well for this conversation.”
She surprised me when she laughed. “Vince was right on the money about you.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that from someone who knows him, and I still don’t know how I feel about that. I’ve really got to stop him from trying to describe me to people. With the description he gives, I probably sound like some awkward tentacle-monster trying to fight Godzilla for control over Tokyo.” Thankfully, I was able to stop right there and not demonstrate what said tentacle monster from Tokyo would sound like, even though I desperately wanted to growl and snarl and howl as I stomped across the room, pretending to chase away tiny Asian people as I destroyed their beloved city. I figured Vince’s mom wouldn’t appreciate live theater in her room, even if I had once performed as a block of cheese.