“You’re making yourself indispensable because you’re afraid of what happens when you’re not,” my mother added, her tone softening in a way that made me want to slam the phone down. “You have been lonely since you bought that house, and you are using that poor woman as a shield so you do not have to go out and meet people.”
“That is not true,” I said, though my fingers immediately went to my watch strap, twisting the buckle until the metal pinched my skin. “She needs me. Her family is in Ohio and they do not care if she eats nothing but toast and tea.”
“I am cooking for her,” I said. “She expects me at six with the grocery slip.”
“Let the woman breathe,” my mother said. “You have your own life to live, though you act like you are seventy-five yourself.”
I ended the call without saying goodbye and set the phone face down on the laminate. The silence in my house was heavy, the kind that makes the hum of the old refrigerator sound like an accusation.
The yellow glow of a single streetlamp at dusk barely reached Dorothy’s porch as I walked across the grass carrying a plastic grocery bag and a warm container of pot roast.
Under the heavy terracotta planter by the top step, the brass spare key sat exactly where she had kept it since her husband died. I checked the corner of the planter with the toe of my shoe to make sure the metal edge was still hidden.
Near the door sat a large cardboard box. The shipping label on top was marked overnight delivery, costing sixteen dollars to ship, but the sender was listed as a medical supply warehouse in Indianapolis.
I reached out and pulled the rusty screen door latch, which let out a sharp, metallic screech that usually brought Dorothy straight to the hallway.
