"Cortland," I say knowing she doesn't know anything about college but she pretends to anyway. "Good," she says, as a way to tell me the conversation is over because it’s painful. "The counselor is going to help me fill out all the apps," I say. "Good.”
7. These days when we go to the hospital for her transfusion, we go out to Friendly's after. We like the fries there. Anyway, today, she goes in for two hours at a time and I wait outside. I read and pop into the room once every thirty minutes, sometimes her eyes are closed but I know she is not asleep, just praying. I stand by and hold her hand and watch her eyelids flutter. I want her to acknowledge me and especially for her to stop asking for a miracle so I say, "In art class, we are learning about this French artist who practices plastic surgery as art; her name is Orlan." My mother opens her eyes. "Her boobs?” She asks, with a weak laugh. "Everywhere" I say, “I will show you her pictures.” "I kind of like art, you know." I tell her. "Your father was a failed musician,” she responds. I can't think of or imagine my father now. It’s too late for that. "Too bad for him," I say. I don't like to see her in the dialysis room imagining how it could have been.
SF&D | xiii