Alexander felt something unfamiliar: shame. Until that moment, if he had seen her in the hallways of his corporate headquarters, he probably would have registered her only as “the cleaning lady.” Nothing more. A blurred figure in the background of a building full of people who greeted him out of interest.
She set the bucket aside, gently adjusted his blanket so it wouldn’t rub against the bandages, moved a lamp that was shining directly in his face, cleaned the bedside table without disturbing the IV lines, and then, in a gesture that tightened his throat, dampened a washcloth and cleaned his hand with almost maternal tenderness.
It wasn’t obligation.
It was humanity.
Just then, her cell phone vibrated. She startled, wiped her hands on her apron, and answered in a nervous whisper.
“Hello, Mom?”
Alexander sharpened his attention.
“Yes… they told me. Yes, the doctor explained it.”
Silence.
Then her voice cracked.
“No, Mom… not years… no… she said if we don’t start treatment right away, it could be three months… maybe less.”
Alexander felt a chill move through him.
The woman braced herself against the wall, as if her legs could no longer hold her.