I could really go to school today; after all, I’m exhibiting all the signs of recovery: the disappearance of my fever, the return of a hearty appetite, boredom. I want to stay in bed, though, and spend the day doing not much of anything besides eating, sleeping and watching Colombo.

It is with some guilt that I pretend to be sleeping when my mother knocks lightly on my bedroom door and then, hearing no response, walks in and comes over to my bed. She quietly leans forward and presses her palm against my forehead, still warm from the comforter that had been purposely covering it until her knock. I open my eyes slowly, as if she’s woken me and she asks me how do you feel, honey? Looking up at her groggily I tell her I feel better but not well enough to go back to school. She says that’s ok and that she has to leave for work now and that she loves me and dad will be home since the restaurant is closed today. She’ll call later to see how I’m doing, she adds before closing my door.

I inhale the Esteé Lauder scent she’s left in the room and wonder why she always wears such strong perfumes. It’s years before Esteé lauder releases “Beautiful” the first perfume she wore that I ever liked. She’s wearing “White Linen” and it makes my eyes sting a little every time she wears it. But I like that she’s left this scented memory of herself in my room. She’s downstairs now and I can hear her quick steps as she moves through the kitchen toward the front door, keys jingling with each step. There are murmured conversations between her and my dad. I’m not conscious of words just the different tones in their voices. Hers, a mezzo soprano, tense and defensive. His, an alto tenor, loud and inquisitive. Somehow I’m happy for her that she’s gone. I think how I’ve hardly ever been home alone with my father.