By eleven, my mother was in the nursery, her fingers smoothing the yellow sheet over the crib mattress. She worked with a quiet, rhythmic efficiency, tucking the corners down until they were flat.
“Clara needs more rest, my darling,” she said, her voice soft and sweet.
I held the empty blue camera housing in my hand, feeling the cheap plastic weight of it.
“Mother, do you know where the power cord for this went?”
Martha stopped her hands, her fingers immediately rising to touch the neat row of pearls at her throat. She adjusted the delicate gold clasp, her eyes scanning the floor around the crib before returning to me.
“I have no idea, Daniel. I do not touch the electronics in this house.”
“It was plugged into the wall behind the changing table yesterday afternoon,” I said. “I checked it before I went to work.”
She smoothed the front of her beige cardigan, her smile remaining in place.
“With Clara so distracted lately, she might have tripped on it and put it away to keep from falling. She is not herself these days.”
