Rapport

Cincinnati, January 1998

Mom visits for my birthday—I’ll be 60, she is 84; both without spouses, we’re becoming girlfriends, giggling at the discount shoe store as we stumble in stiletto heels, then drive to other malls and try on outfits with designer labels we would never wear—she in a beaded slip dress, jiggling her hips, I in a swimsuit with one shoulder bare. The next day I wake coughing with a winter flu—Mom brings me ginger tea and toast with cinnamon, then quietly retreats so I can sleep. Two days later, she’s beside me in the double bed, our wheezes now in concert—tissues, cough drops, orange juice within reach—our throats too sore to speak. Then I remember mysteries on tape I keep for long rides in the car, introduce her to the tough, glib guy from Boston, Spenser (Private Eye), and after several spins with Spenser, Mom sits up in bed and says, through hacking sneezes, “This is so much fun!”