17
The third day after his mother's heart attack, Paul was dragged out of a deep sleep by the ringing of the phone. He got to his feet and stumbled out into the hallway.
“Hello?”
“Is that Paul Webster?”
“Yes …”
“Your mother’s situation has deteriorated …”
Paul barely heard anything more, but managed to ask a few questions. He rushed to dress, before driving faster than normal to the hospital.
He walked into his mother’s room to find the nurse tidying the bedding. She avoided looking at him, murmured some generic condolence, and left him alone.
He hadn’t made it in time.
He stared at his mother, hands clenched. Her skin hung loosely, revealing her as she truly was, a woman well into her seventies. He barely recognised her without that bitter expression which no amount of cosmetics
