The Dripping Photo on Her Hallway Wall

In February, Milo called me from the parking lot at the plant in Lima where he works on the axle line. I could hear the wind on the phone.

“Rosalie, the overtime’s gone,” he said. “They cut it all. Second shift too, maybe.”

“For how long?”

“Nobody knows. Maybe through June.”

I asked him if they needed to back out of the cruise. He said no, absolutely not, they would figure it out. He said Christine had picked up extra shifts at the county nursing home where she is an aide, and they would be fine.

In April, the nursing home cut her hours. Milo did not tell me that part until the third night on the ship.

In March, when the final payment came due, Milo called again and asked if they could pay after the trip, in installments. He said it fast, like pulling off a bandage. I could do the math on an axle line paycheck. I paid the whole $2,800 off my card and told him to forget it.

I told him I did not want it back. I told him not to tell anyone, and I meant it kindly.

What I did not think about was that “don’t tell anyone” also meant don’t tell Christine, and that Milo would keep that secret from his own wife because he was ashamed. What I did not think about at all was my mother.

We flew out of Dayton on a Friday, all eight of us, and stayed the night at a motel near the port. Dad wore his good khakis. Mom kept the boarding passes in a zipper bag she checked every ten minutes. When she saw the ship the next morning, she put her hand over her mouth.

Dad, who has not said “wow” about anything since the moon landing, said “wow.”

That first night was perfect. We ate together. Perry ate four desserts. Claire, who had just finished her first year at Wright State, taught her grandfather how to use the ship app so he could find the buffet, and he wrote the steps on a napkin in pencil and kept it in his shirt pocket all week.

Christine was quiet, but Christine is always quiet at first. I did not think much of it.

The second morning, a sea day, we were all up on the pool deck. It was hot and bright, the water past the rail so blue it looked painted. Mom was sitting in a lounge chair under an umbrella, and Christine sat down next to her to put on sunscreen.

I was two chairs over. I heard my mother say it. She said it the way she says everything, sweet and a little too loud because Dad’s hearing is going and she has gotten in the habit.

“Christine, honey, be sure and thank Rosalie for your cabin. She took care of all of it. Wasn’t that something?”

My mother meant it as a kindness. She thought Christine knew. She thought it was a nice thing to say about her daughter. I have asked her since, and she cried when she understood what she had done.

I watched Christine’s face. Nothing moved on it. She finished rubbing the sunscreen into her arms. She said, “It sure was.” She looked over at me and smiled, a small, flat smile, and said, “Thank you, Rosalie.”

Then she got up and said she was going to find Perry, and I did not see her again until dinner.