Germs

It’s because of the Rummikub game. I wiped down each tile with a Clorox wipe, only it wasn’t the lemon-scented wipes I keep in my bathroom vanity, it was pure bleach, hospital fare, and I forgot to wear gloves, I don’t know why, and even now, after I’ve scrubbed my hands with soap a hundred times, the smell clings.

I had to wipe down those tiles because the game comes from my house, and if it was in my house, it was in one, or all, of my kids’ mouths, and mouths have germs, and germs—

Germs are the whole problem.

Germs threaten Mommy’s life.

The ironic thing is, I muse, as I enter the little foyer that leads to Mommy’s room and scrub my hands in the sink, (which I push with my thigh so as not to touch the sink handle with my hands — my germy, germy hands) and don a disposable mask: Mommy is not sick.

She definitely doesn’t look sick.

She’s wearing a sheitel and makeup, looks as pert and beautiful as always. Test results and numbers can say what they want; Mommy is the picture of health. She’s hosting me, for goodness’ sake, in the hospital room that she transformed into her space, territory she inhabits with the air of a landowner.