And what had she accomplished sharing her body with him? The pleasure of his touch, his heart beating against hers, his scent filling her nostrils and her soul?
And what did he leave her?
Nothing but heartache. Nothing but loneliness. Nothing but the strength to say what she had to say, even if her lips wanted to say something other than “I’m sorry, Ezekiel. I can’t. I’ve got to go.”
CHAPTER 24
SAWYER
Friday, June 26, 2015
Iam in my favorite chair at the senior living facility, but this is my first visit to Honoree’s room in several days. After confessing about my sister’s ghost, I took a few days off. I used the time to write, edit, walk, eat three squares, and not speak to another human other than to say, “Excuse me,” or “Make that a grande cappuccino with extra foam.” I also avoided Mitch’s calls about his money, and refreshed my email every ten minutes, hoping for an update from the restoration company. That was day one. Day two was my solo version of Netflix and chill.
Now it is Friday morning. I’m ready for the next round with Honoree, except before either one of us can open our mouths, Lula pushes a cart into the room, and I smell eggs.
“Mealtime already?” Honoree isn’t pleased with the interruption.
“Yes, ma’am.” Lula adjusts the tray-top table, puts down a plate, and removes the cover. I clear my throat to avoid laughing out loud, but I can’t stop myself and let loose.
“What’s your problem?” Lula asks.
I point at the tray, shoulders shaking, and wipe a tear from my eye. “It’s a plate of green eggs and ham.”
She grimaces at the scrambled egg, cubed ham, and spinach dish, but then a smile dimples her cheeks.
“What are you two giggling about?” Honoree barks.
Lula holds a fork of food. “Sawyer’s reminiscing about his youth and Dr. Seuss.”
“You two children and your silliness.” Honoree ignores the food. “Is she still here, Sawyer? Is she still with us?”
Lula looks at Honoree curiously and then at me as I choke to death.
“Yes, I’m still here,” Lula says emphatically to Honoree while eyeballing me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“We ain’t talking about you, Lula. Sawyer knows who I’m talking about.” Honoree scans the room.
She is about to spill my ghost story all over the floor. I am not amused and raise a finger in protest. “Hush, Miss Honoree. That conversation was between the two of us.”
“We are keeping it between us. Lula don’t have any idea what we’re talking about. Do you, child?”
“I certainly don’t.” Lula still holds the fork of food in front of Honoree. “I’m sure I don’t want to.”
“We’re just talking gibberish, Lula—which is as much as you need to know. Isn’t that right, Sawyer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lula ignores us, hums a tune, and focuses on feeding Honoree, but the feisty old gal refuses to be spoon-fed. But she can’t hold a fork with her gnarled fingers.
After a while, I notice Lula is singing under her breath.
“You have a nice voice.”
“She sure does.” Honoree pushes aside the fork Lula holds. “She sings the blues every Wednesday through Saturday night at some joint on Lincoln Avenue.”
“Thanks for the plug,” Lula says with a smile. “Are you done?”
Honoree nods. Lula returns the tray to the cart and prepares to exit. “You’ve had your fill, I see. I’ll leave you two to your conversation.”
