Maya was huddled in a hard plastic folding chair, wearing thin pajamas and an old cardigan. Her face was ash-gray, her lips chapped and bleeding, and one hand pressed tightly against her surgical incision. The fabric was stained with blood. Sitting in front of her was a plastic cup of instant ramen noodles—lukewarm, swollen, and looking like wallpaper paste. Liam was crying softly inside a wicker bassinet, wrapped in a blanket far too thin for a December night.
“David… why are you back?” Maya stammered, trying to stand up. “Go rest. I’ll… I’ll make you something to eat.”
Her legs buckled beneath her. I caught her before she slammed onto the hardwood floor.
“Where are my mother, Chloe, and Mark? Where is all the food I bought?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I wired them fourteen thousand dollars to take care of you!”
Maya lowered her eyes, unable to meet my gaze.
“They went to Miami for a few days. I just wanted some soup, that’s all. Please, David, don’t make a scene. Your mother said a woman recovering from surgery needs to eat light to ‘cleanse’ her system.”
I yanked open the refrigerator. It was completely bare. The platters of smoked salmon, prime beef, broths, fresh fruit, milk, vitamins, and even Liam’s imported prescription formula were gone. Taped to the inside door was a note written in my mother Eleanor’s sharp, haughty handwriting: