I whispered to my mother—I don't know why—"Norma's home."
I touched her arm, but she didn't hear me. She was too busy humming to herself as she washed the woodwork.
The door opened. Norma saw me and frowned. She didn't recognize me at first—it was dim, the lights hadn't been turned on.
Putting down the shopping bag she was carrying, she switched on the light.
"Who are you?..." But before I could answer, her hand went over her mouth, and she slumped back against the door.
"Charlie!" She said it the same way my mother had, gasping.
And she looked the way my mother used to look—thin, sharp features, birdlike, pretty.
"Charlie! My God, what a shock! You might have gotten in touch and warned me."
"You should have called. I don't know what to say..."
She looked at my mother, sitting on the floor near the sink.
"Is she all right? You didn't shock her or anything..." "She came out of it for a while. We had a little talk."
"I'm glad. She doesn't remember much these days. It's old age— senility."
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