The daughter hated bringing her mother to the eye doctor. It was a fruitless exercise, she knew. She hated the way the doctor spoke in simple words to her mother as if she were a child, and in loud tones as if she were deaf. "She's blind," she wanted to shout at him, "not stupid."

She was painfully aware of the woman following them into the crowded waiting room. If only her mother would move faster. She was guiding her, after all. This caution of movement was excruciating. In the presence of others, she was also aware of her mother's fondness for camphor. And her need to slit holes in the sides of her shoes to relieve her bunions. And that her skin, once so smooth and firm, was now blotched and peeling from the combined effects of skin cancer, excema, and age. That her mother's body disgusted her where it once comforted her made her feel guilty. To silence that thought, she spoke to her mother in bright tones.