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I went back into the house, leaving the woman waiting outside in the clammy heat. Mom was lying in bed in a loose caftan that she’d made herself on her grandmother’s vintage sewing machine.
“There’s a lady here,” I told her. “She’s got ugly lipstick and she’s wearing a church dress. She said she’s supposed to meet with you. Said her name is Mason, or something.”
Mom nodded, like she already knew. She climbed out of bed and shuffled to the living room. Only when she was properly settled in the armchair did I let that woman inside the house.
The woman made an awful din coming up the stairs in her heels. She looked disappointed to see the air conditioner was not turned on and kept waving her hand in front of her face like it was a fan.
Mom didn’t stand up or reach out to shake the woman’s hand. It wasn’t because she was being rude. It took every last drop of her energy for her to sit up straight in the armchair and pretend that everything was fine.
“Hannah, it’s time to play outside,” Mom ordered when I brought them a pitcher of water.
I deliberately left the door open while I played with a tea set on the back patio. I tried my hardest to listen to what they were saying. It was difficult. Their voices were hushed.
I stayed there until the woman rose from the sofa. I thought she was leaving. Instead, she walked through the house with aclipboard and pen, pausing occasionally to write something down. Mom sat in the armchair, watching the woman helplessly as she opened our refrigerator door and examined the contents.
“Not much food in your fridge,” the woman said.
“That’s because we’re going shopping later,” I snapped, shocked at her rudeness. It was a lie. We’d run out of money for groceries and couldn’t get more until Mom’s welfare check arrived later that week.
That awful Mrs. Mason walked through the rest of the house with her lips pursed. When she opened Mom’s bedroom door, I was relieved it was aired out, with clean sheets on the bed. She walked down the hall. Without asking, she pushed open our bedroom door. It was dark with the drapes drawn. She turned on the lights. Jenny, who’d been sleeping, sat up in bed confused at the intrusion.
“My sister has a cold,” I told her. “She’s very infectious.”
The woman quickly turned off the lights and closed the door. When she was done poking around our house like a busybody, she and Mom had a quiet chat. I was once again banished to the backyard. Mom asked me to pick lemons from our tree. I think she wanted to give them to that Mason woman. By the time I came back, that woman had already gone. I stood by the window and watched her little car rattle down the dirt driveway. “Good riddance,” I murmured under my breath.
Mom’s eyes were closed with relief as we heard the last splutter of Mrs. Mason’s car engine.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She works for the city. She was checking to make sure we’re managing,” Mom said.
And then as if she suddenly remembered, she asked, “Where’s Jenny?”
“She’s sick.”
“In summer?”
“She has a cold,” I answered evasively. “She didn’t want you to catch it.”
“She hasn’t been having enough fruit,” said Mom. She went to the kitchen and sliced in half the lemons that I’d picked. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she squeezed those lemons by hand and poured the juice into a glass jug. She added ice cubes, water, and sugar. When it was ready she stirred it with a long metal spoon and poured three glasses of lemonade.
“Give this to Jenny. Tell her to drink every drop. It’s full of vitamins.”
Jenny sat up in bed and drank the whole glass in a single go.
“It tastes like Mom’s lemonade.”
“ItisMom’s lemonade. She’s feeling better today.”
“Can I have more?” Jenny said when her glass was empty.
I brought her my own glass of lemonade from the kitchen. She drank that as well.
The next morning, for the first time in days, Jenny rose from bed. She spent the day lying on a picnic blanket in the backyard as laundry flapped on the washing line against a pristine sky. I lay near her, content, as I tried to replicate the exact shade of the cloudless cerulean sky with my dollar-store paint set.
27
Rachel
