“It’s a nice place.” And, thankfully, just down the block. Am I supposed to invite him to dinner? Maybe? But since he’s already invited himself for breakfast, I don’t see the point. The man is not my friend. He’s not even an acquaintance. He’s here to do a job.
I can only hope that when he’s done, I’ll still have mine.
At home, my legs give up and start their post-encounter wobble. I manage three steps before collapsing on the staircase, very much a ragdoll. Eyes closed, I let my head rest against the wall, let my breathing return to normal, and do not let my mind stray into the future—or, more accurately, my future. I’ve already flirted with the Sight once today.
I don’t need a full-on attack.
Besides, the future is unpredictable; the further away from the present, the more variables come into play. Sure, I might see what happens this week. But the effort isn’t worth it.
The Sight never is.
Instead, I pull myself up by the handrail and cast my gaze about the place. Does it look like my mother has stepped out for my examination? Or can a stranger read the grief in all the things left behind? Do I still wear that grief? Does this house?
I suspect we’re co-conspirators in sorrow, the front room in particular. At the time, it was the only practical space for the rented hospital bed. The hospice nurse kept the morphine in a lock box in the kitchen, but all the other items for my mother’s comfort strayed into this room, including me, often on the couch.
The medical companies have reclaimed everything, but the aftereffects linger. I still expect to see her diminished form in the hospital bed, hear the inhalation of the oxygen condenser and her own labored breath, smell the antiseptic and decay.
And I still wonder what happened the last time I saw my mother.
Chapter 2
Ophelia
Seattle, Washington
Friday, July 7 (one day prior)
Ophelia knows when Henry steps through the front door. With his entrance, her brother brings a reprieve. The loop—the endless, endless loop—pauses. She can take a full breath, or as full a breath as anyone in a coma can take.
She can’t see him. This Sight-induced coma won’t allow for that. But she can hear his footfalls on the sweeping staircase of this Queen Anne mansion. He continues along the hallway, toward her bedroom, his presence steady and sure in a house filled with sorrow and shame. Only when he visits does this space truly feel like home.
Then he speaks, and everyone around her relaxes. Their mother’s frayed nerves mend. The healthcare aide releases a sigh. The nurse on duty—there’s always a nurse on duty, although there’s not much for them to do—wheels the IV stand to the head of the bed so Henry may sit.
“How is she?” he asks, most likely after kissing their mother’s cheek, although Ophelia can’t see that, either. But she knows her brother.
“Better,” their mother says, “now that you’re here.”
“I’m hoping to be here a lot more.”
This is good news. The best news. If Henry is here, he can’t be there. If Henry is here, maybe the loop—this endless, endless loop—will fade, not plague her so.
They confer, quietly. Of anyone, only Henry is aware that Ophelia hears everything said in this room, around her bed, about her rather than to her. Granted, both the nurse and the aide let her know when they’re about to do something—a blood draw, a sponge bath, an adjustment to her position. But it’s routine, a habit they can’t break, with words devoid of meaning.
Only Henry speaks with meaning.
Chair legs scrape against the floor, and she hears the rustle of Henry sitting. He brings his travels with him—bad airport coffee, recycled air, stale sweat. Beneath that? A lingering hint of the desert and a trace of vanilla from his cologne.
“Hey there,” he says and folds her hand in his. The skin is dry and rough, his palm calloused. The desert has left its mark. “Sorry to be gone for so long.”
I understand.
“I took a peek at your vitals.”
Of course he did.
“You are doing better.” A pause. “Mostly.”
Because Henry doesn’t lie, at least not to her.
