Nathan goes with him.
They go every weekend.
Friday afternoon to Sunday night.
The first time, back in March, Nathan came downstairs on a Friday with his backpack over his shoulder.
He stopped in the kitchen doorway.
“Mom,” he said. “I’m going to the VA. With Cole. To the hospice. There’s a guy on the fourth floor who doesn’t have anybody. A Vietnam vet. Mr. Delgado. We’re going to sit with him. We’ll be back Sunday night.”
He paused.
“I’m telling you,” he said. “Because I’m not doing that again. Lying. Not ever.”
I looked at him.
Ezoic
“I know,” I said.
Ezoic
“You can call the nurse’s station. Anytime. To check. Ask for Marguerite. She’s on weekends.”
“I know.”
“And I’ll text you. Every night. Real texts. Not don’t wait up.”
“Nathan.”
“Yeah?”
“Go,” I said. “Take him some soup.”
