May We Be Forgiven

back as he’s heading up the stairs.
    “Christ,” Amanda says.
    “I’ll go,” I say.
    Her parents are standing in the master bedroom. “Could I trouble you for some tea?” her mother asks. “And I fear our luggage has not yet arrived.”
    “How do you take your tea?” I ask.
    “Not too dark,” she says.
    “Two lumps,” he says.
    “Would you like some as well?”
    “None for me—but she always complains that it’s too dark and not sweet enough. Have you got a finger of Scotch?”
    “I can certainly check,” I say, and go back downstairs. “They seem to be settling in for the night,” I say, putting on the kettle for tea.
    “Are they having a sleepover?” Ashley asks.
    “Not sure,” I say.
    Amanda marches up the steps and returns a few minutes later. “They said they’re happy that I joined them on their trip and are so glad to be traveling again and that all of this reminds them of how much they like trying new places. And then they said I could have the rest of the night off and that they would see me again sometime soon.”
    I make tea for Amanda, for her mother, for Ashley, pour the Scotch, and go back upstairs.
    “Well?” Amanda asks when I come down.
    “Your parents are in bed—they’re each wearing a pair of George’s pajamas. Your mother is sitting up, reading the book I left by the side of the bed—wearing my reading glasses. ‘I couldn’t find my nightgown,’ she said, smiling as I handed her the tea, ‘so I put on one of his.’ And your father was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with what I assume is my toothbrush.”
    “Tell them to get dressed and come back down here right now; it’s time to go home,” Amanda says, stressed.
    “They looked very comfortable,” I say.
    “Let them stay,” Ashley begs.
    “Fine with me,” I say.
    “As long as I don’t have to share with the lady,” Ricardo says.
    Amanda looks at us like we’re nuts.
    “I can tell them that checkout time is noon tomorrow, or you can just leave them here. …”
    “What do you mean, leave them?” Amanda asks.
    “They said they were so happy to have their old room back, one big bed rather than separate rooms.”
    “Don’t they know that they chose to have separate rooms?” she asks, agitated, as though she’s being blamed.
    “What I’m saying is that your parents are welcome to stay the night. You can have a few hours to yourself—go do an errand or two.”
    “There’s not much I can do in one night,” Amanda says grumpily.
    “We can make breakfast for them,” Ashley says. “Pancakes and eggs.”
    “With bacon,” Ricardo says.
    “You’re welcome to join us,” I say to Amanda.
    “I’m going,” she says, hastily picking up her purse. “A whole night off. I have no idea what I’ll do.”

    T he next day, around noon, Amanda calls to see how they’re doing. I tell her that they’re fine—we had breakfast, and now they’re sitting in the living room, reading.
    The more I tell her how much I like her parents, the less she talks to me.
    “They’re falling apart,” she says.
    “No more than any of the rest of us,” I say. “They’re spirited.”
    “Fine,” she says. “Since you’re all so comfortable together, maybe I should take the weekend and go somewhere?”
    “Such as?”
    “I don’t know, go see my sister in Philly? Visit old friends in Boston? I can pack up their medications and some clean clothes and drop them off with you.”
    “Should I be sad that you don’t want to go away with me?”
    “It’s not about you,” she says, with a childish bitterness to her tone. “It’s about me. There’s almost nothing left of me—I have to preserve what I can.”
    It’s not like you can call someone who has been caring for his or her aging parents selfish. “Okay,” I say, “enjoy yourself.”
    She goes for the weekend and comes back. I know she’s returned because while I’m out she leaves giant plastic bags filled with more clothing and refilled prescriptions hanging off the doorknob. She leaves me a message on the home phone saying she’s off to run errands—bank, dry cleaner’s. Her voice is charged with renewed enthusiasm.
    She goes and comes back, and then, stopping by to visit, she leaves me with a bank card, house keys, and a list of names and numbers—all of their doctors, etc. She’s here and gone, here and gone—and then gone.
    Ashley is the one who tells me Amanda’s not coming back. “Hit the road, Jack,” Ashley