SAWYER
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Iam in the hospital room, seated in the corner, watching her rest. She should be in hospice but begged me to let her die at Cook County. A place with a bit more action than a hospice, she claims.
I don’t argue when Honoree’s doctor takes me aside. “It won’t be long now,” he says. “She’ll soon make the transition.”
Transition. “Why do you use that word? I don’t like how it sounds. Could she transition back, if she doesn’t like being dead?”
I recognize his type. After the accident, I spent a month in the hospital. Doctors can be a pain in the ass, waiting for them to figure out how to keep you alive. Or, in the case of Honoree, figuring out the most merciful moment to let you die.
The doctor stares at me with an expression crossing neatly between sympathy and dread, and I can hear his mind working, like his fabricated smile. “I’m sorry, son. It’s her time.”
I am not a religious guy. Church and I don’t mesh, although Maggie prays for me every day when she remembers. The most important lesson I learned was from Azizi—death shouldn’t be romanticized. It comes because it is inevitable; sometimes it’s soon, sometimes it takes too long, but it happens. Always in its time. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“I’m thankful,” I say. “I’m thankful we met and talked and got to spend some time together.”
Honoree opens her eyes. “Don’t start thanking me. I’m not dead yet.” Her smile whispers through the room. “There is no reason to rush the conversation. Oddly, I have more time to talk, finally.”
We even accept the gloom on the doctor’s face, but the only sound is the rattle in Honoree’s chest, struggling to draw oxygen into her lungs.
“I can’t see you.” The strength in her voice is gone.
I scoot a chair close to the bed, sit down, and take her hand. Her smooth skin wrinkles like tissue paper beneath my touch. “You need to rest.”
“Not enough rest in the world will make me a day younger.”
I drop my chin into my chest, unable to look her in the eye. There is too much I want to say. “I’m a little tired, too.”
“Why you staring at me so hard?” She raises a hand weakly to her brow. “What that woman do to my hair?”
“The nurse combed it wrong,” I say. “I can fix it if you don’t mind.”
I touch the thin curl at her brow. She likes her wispy bangs to kiss her forehead.
“I guess with all those long braids, you gotta know something about hairstyles.”
I reach into the drawer, remove a small comb, and move a few thin curls onto her forehead.
“Sawyer?” Her voice is the barest whisper. “If something was wrong, not with me, but if something were bothering you, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would.” I squeeze her hand. “Truthfully, I’m sad. I’ll miss you.”
Her chin trembles. “I can’t live forever, but I did live pretty damn long. More than a hundred years, and considering the things I’ve done in my life, it makes me wonder if hate is as powerful as love in keeping the breath in your lungs.”
* * *
Honoree died that Tuesday. Burned to ashes on Thursday. I left for Paris Friday afternoon.
CHAPTER 50
SAWYER
Five months later
The knot in my throat loosens as I wait for Lula to arrive. I’m at the coffee shop across the street from the Sage Fool’s Pub, and I’m early. I want to see her the moment she walks in. See her smile, her walk, have a moment to enjoy our reunion before I open my mouth, and risk spoiling it.
“Sawyer, you’re here already?” She walks toward me wrapped in wool and scarves and a knit hat she swiftly removes. “The temp is so cold outside.”
