Mitch and me warn the administrator that mom would need to live alone in a glass room, with glass fixtures, and glass furniture. Mitch peels back the rubber skin on his forearm to show the administrator why. The administrator shakes his head, says Medicare won’t cover that kind of renovation but would still be happy to have her. Mom insists over the speakerphone to treat her like a normal mom, for once.
Three days later, the assisted living facility appears on television, sinking. We listen to the residents that aren’t in ambulances talking about how mom’s body ate away the walls and floors with every slosh. One resident pulls up his hospital gown and shows the hole in his stomach that won’t stop weeping through the gauze. “What now,” Mitch asks. I pull out the respirators and close the windows.
