Chapter 5 - The Satin Pajamas
They only let me in for five minutes. That was what the nurse at the desk said when Mom nodded at me to go ahead, and Dad stayed back by the vending machines like he couldn't make his legs move any farther down the hall.
The observation room was smaller than I expected. Pale blue curtain half-pulled, machines blinking, air cold enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. Grandma Rose was in the middle of the bed with the rails up. For a second I didn't recognize her because of the gown.
It wasn't her pajamas. It was one of those thin hospital gowns with little blue dots, tied at her shoulder. Her arms looked too bare in it. I kept staring at her collarbone where Mom's gold necklaces would have been if it was Mom, and thinking that was wrong.
I moved closer until my sneakers squeaked on the floor. Someone had brushed her hair back. Her chest went up and down in a slow way that made me count without meaning to. Up. Down. Pause. Up again.
"Hi, Grandma," I whispered. My voice sounded too loud in there.
Mom stood behind me with her hand light on my back. I could feel her thumb moving a little, like she was trying to keep herself steady.
It hit me when I looked at the chair in the corner. Folded over the plastic seat was a neat pile of satin. Light gray-blue, with that dark red trim around the collar. Her pajamas. They'd cut the tape off the sleeve or something, because one cuff hung loose.
My stomach dropped. That was hers. That was what she'd been wearing that morning in the bright bedroom when I had my head on the bed beside her and Mom stood by the glass doors with her hands up by her face.
The night before came back in pieces. Not whole. The hallway light on. The warm smell of the laundry from the dryer. Grandma sitting on the edge of her bed patting the blanket next to her so I'd climb up. The way the satin felt cool under my cheek when I leaned against her arm. She'd been slower getting under the covers. I remembered the sound of the sheet pulling. I remembered thinking her hand was colder than usual when she tucked my hair back. No words. Just that feeling of her being tired and me not asking if she was okay because I didn't want to make it a big thing.
I hadn't asked. That sat in me hard while the machine beeped.
A nurse came in with a clipboard, young with her hair in a twist and pink sneakers. She saw me looking at the chair.
"We had to change her when she came in, sweetie," she said, quiet. "We saved her things for you guys."
She picked up the pajamas and folded them tighter, smoothing the front like it mattered. The burgundy trim caught the overhead light. Then she slid them into a clear plastic bag and pressed the air out before she zipped it.
"Do you want to hold on to these?" she asked me, not Mom.
I nodded fast. The plastic crinkled loud when she handed it to me. It was still faintly warm from the chair, and it smelled like home underneath the hospital soap — like her lavender lotion and our laundry detergent.
Mom reached out in the hall afterward. "Let me carry that for you, baby, so you don't lose it."
We were standing under those bright white lights by the hand sanitizer pump. Dad was still down by the machines, staring at nothing. The bag hung from my fingers and the satin bunched inside.
I pulled it closer to my chest. "No," I said. "I've got it."
May you like
Mom's hand stayed in the air for a second, then dropped. She didn't argue. Her eyes went to the bag and then to my face, and something in her mouth tightened.
I held it with both arms the whole walk back to the waiting chairs. I wasn't letting it go.
