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My mother had been diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer, and the hospital had already stopped treatment.
The moment I got the call, I had the driver take me, my wife, and my son back home through the night to see her one last time.
But when we got there, my wife sat clutching our son and refused to get out of the car.
"That broken-down road in front of your house — you knew I was coming, and you couldn't even lay down a red carpet?"
Then, while I stared in disbelief, she started zipping our four-year-old son into a hazmat suit.
"Protective measures are a must. I won't have him catching something off these penniless people!"
She finished, then tossed a big bottle of high-concentration alcohol at me.
"Here. Disinfect all those poor relatives of yours. If even one of them isn't properly sterilized, none of them come near me!"
My father reached out and took it, smiling carefully, apologetically.
"Sabina has a thing about germs, it's only right, only right!"
And he moved to start spraying the alcohol on himself.
I stopped him at once and fixed my eyes on my wife, Sabina Fox.
"My mother is barely hanging on, waiting to see us one last time. Are you getting out of this car or not?"
Sabina folded her arms, her whole posture cold and aloof.
"No!"
"Last time your mother mailed us that cured ham, John ate it and was throwing up and running to the bathroom for days. If I get out now and catch some germ off her, I could end up dead!"
John was Sabina's male best friend.
My father stooped low, trying to smooth things over.
"City folks are particular about these things. Disinfecting's no big deal, we'll just do as she says…"
But I threw out an arm and stopped him.
"There's no need!"
"Let's get divorced!"
1
The engine had been off for half an hour now.
My wife, Sabina, sat holding our son and refused to budge.
I had just sent the divorce request to my lawyer.
Then Uncle Gerald came over to push me.
"Michael Henson, what are you doing? Your mother's almost gone. Her last wish is to see her grandson. Take Jayden Acevedo in to her, quick!"
I pressed my lips together and reached out toward my four-year-old son in the car.
"Come on, get out with Daddy and go see Grandma!"
The boy didn't move. He turned his head and glanced at Sabina.
Asking for her permission.
Sabina circled an arm around his shoulders.
"You've got the suit on, sure, but there are so many people in that house, and not one of them has been disinfected. What if you catch something? You're not going!"
The boy tucked himself into her arms and didn't dare move.
He was afraid of her.
My father gave my back a reproachful push.
"What's the matter with you, boy? Why quibble over so much at a time like this?"
"Disinfecting's not a bad thing. Dad'll do it himself!"
My father took the bottle of alcohol and hurried back into the house.
Twenty minutes later he came back, soaked in sweat, and said, "Besides the relatives, I've sprayed down every last corner. Now can you get out?"
Sabina's gaze fell on the nearly empty alcohol bottle, and only then did she grudgingly take our son by the hand and step down from the car.
The house was crowded with people.
All the relatives had come.
My mother lay on the bed, my cousin Kayla Abbott keeping watch beside her.
"Jayden…"
At the sight of the boy, my mother, holding on to her last breath, reached out a hand toward him.
The boy started forward, and Sabina yanked him back.
"That's enough. Whatever you want to say, say it from here. Don't pass your sickness to the child!"
She wouldn't even let him through the doorway.
She only allowed him to stand outside the door and watch from a distance.
Kayla's eyes were red, and she glared at Sabina in fury.
Sabina, unbothered, patted at her hair with a lazy air.
"Jayden, this is for you, from Grandma. Something to remember me by."
My mother opened a small cloth bundle and took out a little silver lock.
She had melted down the bracelet she'd worn for twenty years and had it made especially.
The boy started forward again, but Sabina blocked him and let out a scornful little snort.
"That's it?"
"How much can a silver thing be worth? Just like I said — poor people stay poor their whole lives!"
