The article was shared dozens of times on Facebook, where some chubby guy named Timmy Hopper had the nerve to make a joke about Sam’s reputation back in high school—“Anyone check Sheila Demollino’s basement?”—garnering six likes the last time I checked.
A light turns on upstairs at the Pigeon’s house. The second-to-last window, the middle boy’s room. I check the time. Five forty-six p.m., right on schedule. Fourteen years old and sneaking upstairs every evening, two long streams of smoke out the window, just to get through an evening with his family. The lighter flashes on, illuminating his face, as my oven timer beeps downstairs. I hang the binoculars on their hook and head grudgingly down to the kitchen, hoping Sam will still be asleep when I bring his dinner.
He’s asking to go home. I’ve been avoiding him since yesterday, when I walked in to find him out of bed. I’ve been puttering around upstairs, mentally compiling my latest list.
Reasons why Sam can’t go home: A list
Because I want to take care of him. It’s what you do for the people close to you: you tend to them when they’re in need. If anyone is going to understand that, it’s the guy who moved home to take care of his mom.
Look at all I’ve done for him. A top-rated mattress, clean sheets daily, fresh flowers to brighten the room, because—
If there’s one person who understands exactly what a homebound patient needs to be at their best, it’s me, Albert Bitterman Jr., twenty-five-year employee of Home Health Angels, employee of the month three times.
In the kitchen, the Egg Beaters casserole looks done and I scoop a perfect square of it onto a plate, on top of the meat. I set the plate on the cart with a clean set of plastic flatware, and head down the hall. Sam’s breathing is raspy when I unlock the door and peek my head inside. Thank god, he’s asleep. I take the tray from the cart and quietly set it on the nightstand, then pause at the foot of his bed to admire my work.
Only once have I applied a cast to a broken bone: twenty-five years ago, during the six-week （unpaid） hospital internship required to become a certified Home Health Angel. A doctor allowed me to wrap a hairline fracture in a nine-year-old’s wrist. That was nothing compared to what I had here—two legs in need of mending, compound fractures in each one, as far as I can tell—and while I’m not typically one to brag, this was a five-star job.
“Something smells good.” I freeze. He’s awake. “What is it?”
“Steak and eggs,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Steak and eggs?” Sam props himself up on his elbows, sleepy-eyed, his hair tousled. “What’s the occasion?”
“A little extra protein in the evening is helpful when you’re trying to rebuild your strength,” I say, heading toward the door. “I hope you like it.”
“Albert?” I pause. “You want to hang out for a while?”
I turn back around. “Hang out?”
“I’m going a little stir-crazy,” he says. “I could use the company. Unless you’re in the middle of something.”
“No,” I say, clearing my throat again, and smoothing my apron. “I have a few minutes.”
“Excellent.” Sam winces as he reaches for the tray, and I hurry to help him. “Thanks,” he says as I adjust his pillows. “Much better.”
There’s no place to sit other than his bed, so I stand in the middle of the room as Sam cuts into his meat and takes a bite. “Very good,” he says.
“Salisbury steak,” I say. “Ground beef, ketchup, and half a can of condensed onion soup.”
“Soup. Was wondering what that taste was.”
“It’s Linda’s recipe,” I say.
“She a girlfriend?”
I laugh out loud. “Are you crazy? No, she’s not a girlfriend. She’s quite a few years older and not my type.” Sam takes a bite of eggs and watches me. “Linda Pennypiece,” I continue. “Great name, right? We worked together, back in Albany.” Sam stays quiet, chewing. “Her son Hank used to bring her this meal every Friday.” Hank, the meathead. He’d show up in that pickup truck at lunchtime, two thick slices of Salisbury steak and a mound of instant mashed potatoes plastic-wrapped on a Chinet plate. He’d stay to watch her eat and then take the plate home, as if he planned to reuse it.
“Well, tell her she’s a good cook,” Sam says, taking another bite of steak.
“I can’t,” I blurt out. “We’re no longer on speaking terms.” I nearly called her two days ago. It was her birthday, and I saw on the Home Health Angels website that all the girls in the office had a party for her—Madge, Rhonda, Mariposa, posing in birthday hats next to the cake. I considered calling to wish her happy birthday but decided against it, too afraid that ignorant son of hers would get wind of it.