"So no one sent you?"
"No."
"You'd better go," she quickly concluded.
"Maybe she'd like a cup of tea," I heard behind me and looked back at Mary Margaret's mother. She was standing in the middle of the room, her head tilted toward us. "I can make it, you know," she added.
"No," Mary Margaret called back. "She's not staying, Mum."
"What are you afraid of, Mary Margaret?" I asked, stepping farther into the bedroom.
"I'm not afraid. You'd better go."
"That's not very hospitable, Mary Margaret," her mother called.
"Mum, just be still."
"Is it true then, Mary Margaret?" I asked.
"What's true?" her mother asked. She was close to the doorway, but she still had her head tilted as though she wanted to hear us better.
"Nothing, Mum, nothing. Go back to your radio."
I stood there staring and suddenly, Mary Margaret started to weep. I went to her and sat on the bed.
"It's all right," I said. "I came to help you."
"Are you crying in there, Mary Margaret?" her mother asked.
"No, Mum. No. Please."
"I'll make a pot of tea for you and your friend," she said and shuffled away.
"Is your mother all right?" I asked. "Should I go out there?"
"No, she's fine. She's blind, but she manages," she said. "Blind?"
"She's what's known as legally blind. She can make out shapes and such, but she really doesn't see," Mary Margaret
told me as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. She pulled herself up in the bed. "Why are you here?"
"I told you. I was worried about you."
"Why do you care about me?" she asked.
"We should all care about each other, don't you think?" I replied.
She stared at me suspiciously, as suspiciously as someone who knew there was more.
"Are you really pregnant?"
She nodded.
"Are you going to marry the man?" I asked.
"What man?"
"The man who made you pregnant. Is he going to do the right thing, take care of you and your baby?"