“No, I’m not.”

“Please, Mom.”

“No. I have a very active social life. How could I get intimate with a gentleman when my daughter is in the other room?”

Reluctantly, I played my trump card.

“I spoke with your doctors. They don’t feel that you’re able to take care of yourself.”

Mom’s face hardened.

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

“They’ll only release you from the hospital into my custody.”

“Was it that Dr. Kingsbury? Smarmy little bastard, talking to me like I’m a three-year-old.”

“You don’t have a choice, Mom.”

“I always have a choice.”

“It’s either me, or assisted living.”

I watched my words sink in. My mother’s biggest, and only, fear was going into a nursing home. Before meeting my father, she worked briefly as an activity director in a continuing care facility, and swore that she’d jump in front of a bus before ever checking into one of the “death hotels,” as she called them.

“No way in hell.”

“Mom, I can invoke power of attorney.”

“My mind is sound.”

I made myself keep going, even though I hated this.

“I have friends in the courts, Mom.”

My mom turned away, shaking her head.

“You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Look at me, Mom. How far do you think I would go to protect you?”

Mom continued to stare at the wall. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

“Bullying an old lady. Is that how I raised you, Jacqueline?”

“No, Mom. You raised me to care. Just like you said: You’re the only family I’ve ever had. You took care of me for eighteen years.” I squeezed her hand. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

Mom pulled her hand away.

“I’d like to be alone.”

“Please. Don’t be like this.”

She pressed the button to page the nurse.

“Mom… please.”

A white-clothed figure poked her head into the room.

“How are we doing, Mrs. Streng?”

“I’m very tired. I’d like to take a nap.”

The nurse looked at me, sympathetic.

I stood up, briefly fussed with the get-well flower arrangement I’d brought, and then turned to leave.

“Nurse,” Mom’s voice cracked. “Please make sure I don’t have any visitors for the next few days.”

“Perhaps you’ll feel differently tomorrow, Mrs. Streng.”

“No. I’m sure I won’t.”

The tears came again. I took a deep breath and stopped my chest from quivering.

“I love you, Mom.”

For the first time ever, she didn’t respond with “I love you too.”

The nurse put her hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle push.

I took one more look at my mother, and walked out of her room.

Mom lived in Dade City, a pleasant town that seemed out of place in Florida. Rather than tourist-crammed beaches and mega theme parks, Dade boasted gently rolling hills, actual woods, and so many antique malls you couldn’t spit without hitting one.

The night had arrived, hot and thick like a soggy blanket, but I kept the windows down. The rental had decent air-conditioning, but I didn’t feel I deserved it.

I’d been to her place twice before, and always missed the turn onto her street. Tonight was no exception. I pressed through three lefts and found it on the second pass.

Her condo had a matching numbered space in the parking lot. Overnight bag slung over my shoulder, her keys in my hand, I was just about to enter the lobby when I stopped, mid-step.

Was I doing the right thing?

A quick image of Mom facedown in the bathtub spurred me on.

The Highlands were retirement condos, regardless of what the brochures promised. No one under fifty-five lived here. A full-time staff kept the pool clean, ran errands for the tenants, and tended the prerequisite eighteen-hole golf course. They also had EMT training, a necessity since the elderly often acted, well, elderly. But even though they were available twenty-four hours a day, they didn’t routinely check on their residents.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor, and found a painfully thin old man in a bright Hawaiian shirt crouched before my mother’s open door, fiddling with a screwdriver.

“Hello?”

He peered at me through thick glasses; first the upper half, then tilting his head up so he could squint through the bifocals. The man had a bald head so speckled with age spots it was a dead ringer for a sparrow’s egg.

“Mmm? Oh, hello.”

The man stood, with much creaking of bones. Fully erect, he wasn’t much taller than when he’d been squatting; his back curved like a question mark. He smiled, flashing bright white dentures, and offered his hand.

“You must be Jacqueline. Sal Griffin. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

I forced down my smile. Mom often told me stories of her trysts with Mr. Griffin, and usually described him as “insatiable,” “unrelenting,” and “He’s a machine; his pelvis is spring-loaded.” I’d always pictured him as a distinguished, Sean Connery type. Instead, standing before me was a bald Don Knotts.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Griffin.”

“The police made a bit of a mess.” He motioned to the door. “I’m putting in a new jamb.”

“Don’t they have people here that can fix it?”

“Sure. But I wanted to make sure it was done right. Excuse me, where are my manners? Let me take that for you.”

Mr. Griffin reached for my carry-on. I thought about protesting, fearful he might hurt himself lifting it, but then let him play the gentleman. He led me into the condo, flipping on lights as he walked.

The place was clean, tidy, well-kept. I resisted the immediate urge to check the fridge and the cupboards to make sure Mom was eating right.

“I spoke with your mother a little while ago. She mentioned you might be coming.”

He set my bag down on the dining room table.

“How long ago? I’ve tried to call a few times since leaving the hospital, but she has a Do Not Disturb on the line.”

“Oh, about five minutes. She called me. I’ve never heard her so upset before.”

“We had a… disagreement.”

He frowned, nodding.

“Proud woman, your mother. When I had the police break in, earlier today, her first words to me were to get the hell out of her bathroom, because she didn’t want me to see her like that.”

I smirked. “That sounds like Mom.”

“I’m sorry she was there for so long. I just got back into town this morning. If I’d have even considered…”

“Thank you for coming to her rescue, Mr. Griffin. I’m the one who should be feeling guilty. She’s fallen before.”

“I know. Eight or nine times. I installed the safety bar in her shower.”

I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. “Eight or nine? She told me four.”

“I’m not surprised. You’d have just…”

His voice trailed off. We both knew what was unsaid. If I’d known she’d been falling a lot, I’d have forced her to move in with me earlier.

“Well, I appreciate all you’ve done for her. Thank you.”

Mr. Griffin shrugged. “Beautiful woman, your mother. Nice to finally meet you. She talks about you incessantly.”

“It must be irritating.”

“Not at all. I’d love to hear your version of how you got that guy who killed all those women, the Gingerbread Man. The way your mom tells it, that private investigator fella, the one who was the hero in the TV movie, he really didn’t do a damn thing.”

“True.”

“And you’re much prettier than that fat actress they got to play you.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Though I will admit, that scene in the sewer, where you grabbed that fella’s leg and begged for him to save you…” Mr. Griffin chuckled. “That was pretty funny.”

I frowned. That wasn’t how it happened, but I figured I got off easy. In the original screenplay, the writer had me wet my pants in that scene. I had to threaten legal action to get that taken out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”