“You need anything?” Mama asked. She was dressed in a nightgown and a bathrobe and looked like she was a hundred years old. Her voice was full of something I couldn’t quite grasp. Anger? Despair? Exhaustion?
I struggled to get my shirt off. Mama grabbed hold of it, pulled it up and over my shoulders. The twisting of my arms as I lifted them made my chest seize up with fresh agony.
“You gon’ take a shower?”
I nodded.
“You take your pills?”
I nodded again.
“Why don’t you take tomorrow off,” she suggested.
“I’ve already missed too many days, Mama,” I said.
“You look like hell.”
“I feel like hell.”
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“You’ll feel better if you eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She put a hand to her throat, looking at me with cautious but tired eyes. “You need help taking a shower?” she asked.
“You’d have to look at my penis.”
“Why does every conversation have to involve your little penis? Must you always wave it in our faces?”