Mothered (37)

Her head was finally recovering after its weekend mutiny, and the weather was cooperative enough that she thought she might eat breakfast on the porch. Wasn’t fresh air a cure-all? She hadn’t stepped foot outside in days—since her picnic brunch with Miguel. Speaking of whom . . .

“Hey lovey.” She answered the FaceTime call and headed for her closet, in search of the wedge heel sandals she’d gotten on sale last fall and had almost forgotten about.

“Are you going out?” Miguel asked.

“That was the plan. Ooh, found them!” She held up the sandals for Miguel to see.

“Cute! New?”

“Newish. Haven’t worn them yet.” She sat on her bed to fasten them on.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, and I don’t mean to rain on your parade, lovey, but I have some news and we need to have a little talk.”

Grace had an instant twinge of worry and stopped what she was doing to give Miguel her undivided attention. She’d been trying to force herself into a productive, all-better-now sort of day but his words—his tone—made her feel like a bumblebee who’d lost her buzz.

“Are you okay?” She really wanted to ask if she’d done something wrong, as that was almost the greater concern. What did you fuck up now, Grace?

“Yes . . .” But the word was a lie.

“What’s wrong?”

He was sitting at his kitchen table and Coco walked in front of the camera, a giant orange fur ball. Miguel moved his iPad over, but Grace could still see Coco’s tail, undulating like a fishing lure. “I don’t want you to freak out,” he said.

“Words that never stopped anyone from freaking out.” Moments ago Grace had been ready to go, but now the weariness was returning. Her thighs fused to the mattress; she couldn’t get up even if she wanted to.

“Seriously, there’s nothing to panic about.” Oh God. “But Carolina’s maid of honor tested positive, and she’s been hospitalized.”

Grace just gazed at Miguel, blinking, stupefied. They were common words, words she heard every time she turned on the news—hospital, test, positive—but they’d never been applied to her own circle, or extended circle, of friends.

“Is she okay?” Grace asked. “She’s young, isn’t she? Carolina’s age?”

“Yes, thirty. But . . . it sounds serious.”

Grace recalled more words: next wave, mutations, variants. “Fuck.”

Miguel nodded, as somber as she’d ever seen him. “I’m so sorry, Grace. I should’ve worn a mask when I was over.”

It took her a second to grasp what he was saying. “Are you sick?”

“No, but I was around her for days—I could easily have been exposed. And even with having the wedding outside . . . we were in and out, not really social distancing, only wearing masks in the car or in public. We all have to self-isolate for two weeks—and you should too. I’m so sorry.”

Grace sat there with one shoe on, one shoe off, rewinding the conversation in her head. It was simple enough yet still didn’t make sense. “Is this a dream?” she mumbled.

“No, sorry, you’re not sleepwalking. I know it sucks—I called my doctor and she said that if I don’t have any symptoms I should just stay home. I asked about getting tested, and she said I’m not an Essential Worker. How’s that for a kick in the face?”

“We have to stay home for two weeks?” The reality was starting to sink in. No going out for groceries or wine or to get some fresh air away from her mother. She’d done this before, of course, a few months earlier, but life was just starting to get back to normal.

“We were outside most of the time, so you’re probably fine. But if you get any symptoms, call your doctor. Sophia’s really sick, I guess; we’re waiting to hear about her immediate family. And I’m sorry Grace, but Miss Jacquelyn should stay in too. I didn’t see that much of her, but you’re—”

“Around her all the time,” said Grace, finishing his sentence. “Fuck.”

They gazed at each other on their small screens. It wasn’t Miguel’s fault, and she wasn’t mad at him. Grace had been all too eager to have company and socialize. She winced, thinking about the call she’d have to make to Allison.

“Are you gonna be okay?” she asked him. Neither of them had the sturdiest of financial foundations, but at least Grace was sharing expenses with a roommate—though Coco was probably more companionable.

“Yeah. Might be able to go back on unemployment for a couple weeks.”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna be okay?” he asked.

“We’ll manage.” She gave him a tired smile. “Well, let’s check in every day, okay?”

“Yes, absolutely. Self-isolation buddies.”

“Keep me posted. Love you.”

“Will do.” He blew her a kiss.

She tossed the phone onto the bed. Now she was dressed up with nowhere to go. Slowly, she unbuckled the one sandal and dropped the pair back into her closet. She couldn’t tell Miguel the doubt she was really feeling—not without guilt-tripping him—about being trapped in the house with her mother for two weeks. Jackie had been there less than three weeks. Grace wasn’t sure she could handle a nearly equivalent period of confinement with her, especially while not being mentally or physically at her best.