After a few more questions—such as where he went to church (he was agnostic) and where his family was from (native, ma’am)—Mom subsides and then ultimately falls asleep against my shoulder. Without the volley of words to distract me, I feel Ian’s big body even more keenly. His arm has been thrown across the back of the bench seat and her weight against my side presses me ever closer to him. His thigh feels like granite next to mine, and he smells delicious. I’m too agitated by his presence to talk. He somehow senses that and for once leaves me be.
When we arrive at my apartment building, he taps the underside of my chin and draws my face around. I notice for the first time his lashes are really long, almost girlishly so, and they give his dark-green eyes a seductive cover.
“Stay here,” he instructs, swinging his large body out and coming around to open the passenger side door. With an ease that belies the difficulty of the maneuver, Ian leans in and scoops my mother out of the car as if she’s a child. He cradles her to his chest tenderly, and my hard heart melts into a puddle of goo. Tears prick my eyes and I’m glad that I have to hurry ahead of him to unlock the outer door.
I hold it open while he turns sideways so as to avoid bumping my mother’s head on the doorjamb. The rundown condition of my living environment is embarrassingly evident. The linoleum is yellowed and cracking in places with the corner peeling away from the floor. There is a smell of rottenness from garbage left out too long that permeates the lobby.
Swinging my keys around my finger, I glance up toward the stairs and then sigh lightly. There’s no way he’s carrying Mom up five flights of stairs. Leaning over her, I smooth her hair away from her face and give her a soft kiss on the forehead, again struck by the role reversal. It’s like Ian and I are the parents and we’re carrying our child home after a long day at the zoo. It’s such a wistful thought my heart squeezes a little too tight.
“Thanks for being so great with my mom, but I can take it from here,” I say.
He looks at me skeptically and makes a minute adjustment to lift mom higher in his arms. “Your mom is fairly light, but even feathers get heavy after a long period. Mind if we talk on the way up? You can thank me when we put your mom to bed.”
Without waiting for a response, he starts walking up the stairs. “Fifth floor right?”
My mouth is open and I’m gaping at his rapidly disappearing ass. Collecting myself, I race after him. “How did you know?”
“Your apartment number is 525. Not terribly hard.”
“Malcolm, again?”
“Malcolm,” he acknowledges.
Chapter 11
THE FIVE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS go by quickly without having to carry either my mom or my bike. Stepping ahead to unlock the door, I let him in and show him my mother’s room. He lays her down carefully and then exits the room. Alone, I remove her shoes, slacks, and sweater, leaving her in the light-knit shell she wore. She’s all worn out, and my heart pounds heavily. Monday she'll spend hours hooked up to an IV as the poisonous chemicals enter the bloodstream trying to kill off her cancer. Her plaintive cry that she wasn’t going to make it haunts me.
“Love you, Mom,” I whisper. I feel myself teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown. I’m not prepared to fence with Ian, and I spend an inordinate amount of time smoothing blankets and straightening things. Intently I listen for the door to close and signal his departure, but there’s nothing but silence.
Finally, I give up and head out into the small living room and kitchen area. Ian is sitting on the sofa, one leg thrown negligently over the other, looking like an autocratic ruler in charge of everything he sees. It’s a small and pitiful kingdom. We don’t have much. A couple of bookcases full of used DVDs for me and books for my mom. There’s a laptop that’s about eight years old that my mom used for work, but it’s done more time as a coaster in recent months than actual computing. I don’t use it at all, given that writing is even more painful than reading.
We have a small wooden table and two nice chairs. The furniture isn’t bad because it’s part of a set Mom had bought before she got sick, but our impoverished situation is unmistakable.
I’m too tired to be embarrassed over this. We’re doing the best that we can, and if I could get Ian to allow me to do this “job,” I can make the whole situation better. It’s painful, though, to have him looking at me and judging.
“Your mother’s lovely,” he says. His words are so unexpected that a laugh escapes me. “What?” he asks, one brow quirking upward in a query.
“I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. Ian rises and leads me over to sit beside him on the sofa. It's because I'm tired that I don't resist.
“Where’s Malcolm’s father?”
The question is unexpected. “Who knows? Far away from us. We haven’t seen him in years, and that’s a good thing.” I avoid Ian’s eyes. He’s too perceptive. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I think we only have milk and orange juice. We're eating healthy.”
“I ordered some food for us. I thought your mom might be hungry when she woke up.” He’s uninterested in a beverage.
“Ian—” I start to protest, but he raises his hand. I don’t have much energy to fight him. It feels too good to sit and rest my head on the back of the sofa.
“No. I don’t want to hear any objection. It's done.” The finality in his voice shuts me down. I don't have the energy for a fight over food.
“Fine. Why don't you tell me what you wanted from Malcolm and how best I can deliver it?”
He makes a noncommittal humming noise and is saved by a knock on the door.
No one ever knocks on your door in the city unless it’s a mad neighbor. I don’t ever talk to my neighbors. I get up to answer, but Ian beats me to the door. As if he lives here. Outside is a burly blond guy who looks as if he belongs on a beach somewhere instead of standing outside my apartment carrying bags of food with an Asian symbol on them. This isn’t ordinary Chinese take-out, I’m guessing.
“Tiny, meet Steve. Steve’s in charge of me.” Ian takes the food but doesn’t back away, leaving me two inches of space to duck under his arm—which is holding the door open—reach forward, and shake Steve’s giant hand. It’s a brisk movement, and Steve’s face is as impassive as the presidents' heads on Mount Rushmore. I can’t tell if he hates me or if he’s irritated that he’s reduced to delivering food, but there’s not a hint of “happy to meet you.”