I walked down the hall, to room number eight, and slowly ran my fingers across the nameplate: Sarah Irene Weston.

I walked into the room and the woman in bed immediately sat up.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Are you here for Sarah? She pointed to the empty bed next to her.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m here for Sarah. Do you know where she is?”

“She’ll be back in an hour or so.” She patted the edge of her bed. “You’ll keep me company until she gets back?”

I nodded and walked over, sitting on her bed.

She was silent for a few minutes—looking as if she was waiting for Sarah, too, but then she began to speak.

“They don’t keep it warm enough here,” she said. “I always have to ask for blankets.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I noticed she was buried under four of them, that there was a stack of them in the corner.

“It’s okay. They joke with me every time I ask for a new one. Apparently, I’ve asked for so many, that some anonymous donor sends me brand new ones whenever I want. All I have to do is call some place called Blanket Manufacturing when I’m running low and they come like clockwork.”

“That’s very nice.” I looked toward the door to see if a nurse was nearby.

“Isn’t it?” She smiled. “I hate the food here as well, so another anonymous donor sends me catered food every day. What’s your name, son?”

“Jake.”

“Jake?” Her eyes lit up. “I have a son named Jake! Jake Weston is his name. He’s a pilot, you know.”

“Is he now?”

“Yes.” She looked proud. “He sends me trinkets from every city he flies to, every single one so I can feel like I’ve traveled the world, too.”

“That’s very nice of him.”

“He is nice.” She nodded. “He’s just stubborn. Things always have to be his way or no way.”

“Not always...”

“Oh, trust me.” She laughed. “I know my Jake. It’s always, especially since he’s in his twenties now.” She pointed toward the stack of blankets in the corner, so I grabbed one and lay it on top of her, tucking her tightly underneath.

“Do you have any children, Jake?” she asked.

“No.”

“No? Why not? You look like you’re in your prime, like you’re ready to settle down and have a few.”

“I don’t have the time.”

“The time?” She laughed. “Oh, now you sound exactly like my Jake! He always says that! I’ll have to tell him about you. I’ll have to let him know that there’s another Jake in the world who doesn’t want to have any kids.” She looked toward the door. “Since Sarah’s taking a long time, can we talk a little more? Can I tell you more about my Jake?”

I nodded, the ache in my chest becoming damn near unbearable.

“Well, you know how they say a mother never has a favorite child?” She waited until I nodded. “Between you and me, Jake is my favorite—always has been. When my father passed away, and left me this monstrosity of a condo in Manhattan, I gave it to Jake. Only Jake. I gave my other son something just as nice—it was nicer actually. But it was located in the suburbs because he once told me he wanted a family...” She paused. “But then he sold it, for half of what it was worth.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be! I did the same thing with my father’s watches,” she said. “I’m not sure why he left them to me, but Jake always appreciated them, so he deserved to have them.” She leaned over her bed and opened a drawer, pulling out my high school yearbook picture and showing it to me with a smile.

I nodded at the image, wishing I’d gotten here faster.

“I don’t get visitors too often, Jake,” she said. “Since we’re still waiting on Sarah, you have to stay for at least an hour, okay? I can tell you stories if you want...”

With no prompting, she told me endless stories from my childhood, stories I’d heard a million times before and lived through first hand. She embellished details here or there, making me sound slightly more mischievous like she always did.

In the middle of her telling me about the time she caught “Jake” sneaking out of the house at night, she grabbed the glass on her night stand and slowly sipped her water. Then she set it down and stared at me, her eyes widening with every second that passed by.

“Why are you...Why are you sitting on my bed?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“I’m sorry.” I stood up. “My apologies, Miss. I must be in the wrong room.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay. Are you here for Sarah?”

I sat down again, letting her tell me the same stories over and over—watching her remember and forget me within the same five-minute span. And the more she talked, the more I wondered if she knew she was technically dead. That her name and likeness were already transfixed to a plane, for a flight she’d never taken, a fake story she’d never hear.

Every now and then she’d come to and remember random, recent things, saying, “I’d always tell Jake about my husband, I’d say, He lied to you...He lied to all of us...He used that accident for his advantage...”

And although she could easily slip into another happy refrain and forget all about it, all I could see was my father—fucking lying, always lying. Using any opportunity possible to bolster his image, shunning me and anyone else who dared to stand in his way. Using the timing of my mother’s brain disease diagnosis and short life expectancy in conjunction with a plane crash to garner sympathy and funding.