CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Through swollen eyes blurred with tears, I watch Kieran pack our things. When I woke up twenty minutes ago, he was still holding me, and when I gathered the energy to raise my head, his hopeless expression made my insides twist even tighter. I expected him to ask what happened or if I wanted to talk, but he simply asked what he could do for me. I could only shake my head as tears continued to fall.
Now he’s taken matters into his own hands. He’s been on the phone a few times, carrying on hushed conversations as he packs his own bag and then mine.
“I can’t drive.” It takes me three tries to get the words out of my dry throat.
Kieran immediately stops what he’s doing and sits on the edge of the bed, clasping my hand tightly. “I know. I’m going to follow the back roads we used to get here. It’ll be okay.”
It feels like nothing is ever going to be okay again, but I nod anyway.
I try to stay alert on the way home since Kieran isn’t familiar with these back roads and he’s never driven in Canada. I can’t seem to keep my eyes open, though. I drift in and out, startling awake a few times. It seems like no time at all has passed before we’re pulling into my driveway. Kieran leaves our bags in the car and helps me inside the house. Celia—who hates showing affection and will literally leave a room to avoid being hugged—appears from the living room and wraps her arms around me in a long, tight embrace. Which, of course, only makes me cry harder. When I let out a sob, she releases me like I’m suddenly on fire, shooting a distressed look at Kieran. He murmurs something to her before guiding me to my bedroom, helping me into my pajamas, and putting me to bed.
*****
Time has become meaningless. I’ve been in this bed for so long—days? Weeks? Years?—that it and I are now one. I keep trying to summon the energy to get up, but sleep calls to me like a siren, pulling me under every time I’m about to break the surface. At least when I’m sleeping, the ache in my heart doesn’t feel like it’s going to consume me.
Quiet voices filter down the hall. I think Kieran, Ivy, Hugh, and Celia have been having one never-ending emergency meeting, trying to figure out what to do with me. I don’t even know what to do with me, so I can’t expect them to figure it out.
I should get up and tell them I’m okay. Except I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again. Seeing my mother, seeing how she’s changed, seeing that flash of what I thought was recognition followed so closely by fear…I gasp for breath, clutching at my chest.
There’s a difference between knowing something intellectually and experiencing it firsthand. I knew Mom wouldn’t recognize me and I knew the disease would have caused changes in her, but I wasn’t expecting the complete stranger sitting in that wheelchair. Mom knew that’s what would happen, though. Now I understand why she didn’t want me to see her in that state. Why she insisted I stay away. And yet I, having regained some of my former strength and hope, thought I could handle it. I thought even if she didn’t remember me, seeing her as she was would be better than not seeing her at all. But I was wrong. So wrong. I wish I’d stayed away. Preserved her memory. Maybe now I wouldn’t be lying here, broken.
My eyelids grow heavy. I should get up. I should, I should, I should. But I can’t. And I don’t. Sleep calls to me again and I answer willingly, gladly.
*****
I dream about Ivy. I can’t see her, but I can smell her shampoo and hear her voice. Her presence is comforting. When I open my eyes, she’s lying next to me, and I wonder if I’m still dreaming. But no, she’s really here, propped up in bed beside me, reading.
She glances over and when she sees my eyes are open, she sets the book aside and slides down to lie beside me. “Hi.”
My face feels numb, so I blink at her. My own version of Morse code. We stare at each other for several long moments. She looks so sad. I hate that I’m the reason she’s sad. I hate that I can’t get it together. They say misery loves company, but not like this. I don’t want the people I love to share in my misery.
“What if I can’t put the pieces back together?” My words are slurred. I barely understand them myself, so I doubt Ivy will. They’re the first words I’ve spoken in…I don’t even know how long. Ivy probably wonders if I’ve secretly been drowning my sorrows in a hidden bottle of liquor when they’re not looking. The thought makes me want to laugh, except I don’t have the energy.
She pushes my tangled hair away from my face. “You will. There might be some cracks and it might be fragile and tender for a while like a bruise, but you’ll do it. And we’ll help you.”
My eyes sting, but for once no tears come. “I’m so tired, Ivy. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but it’ll get better. I promise. For now, you just stay here as long as you need. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
*****
How long have I been in this bed? How long have I been wearing these pajamas? When’s the last time I showered?
It’s a struggle to open my eyes. My eyelashes feel like they’re stuck together with glue. I pry them open and slam them shut almost immediately against the bright light. I try again a minute later, squinting as my eyes adjust. I take mental stock of my body; I feel like I just woke up after sleeping for a hundred years. My mouth and throat are so dry it feels like I swallowed half a desert. The other half is in my eyes, making me blink compulsively against the gritty sensation. I stretch slowly, groaning at how tight my muscles are. This is like the aftermath of the world’s worst flu.
I’m not sick, though. Just heartsick.
Movement catches my eye and I jerk my head up off the pillow, flopping back when the room spins.
“Easy,” Hugh murmurs. The bed dips as he sits on the edge, then lies down next to me. Silence stretches between us as neither of us says a word. I wonder if he, Ivy, Kieran, and Celia have been taking turns watching me. I kept hearing voices, but I wasn’t entirely sure if they were real or if I was dreaming.
Finally, Hugh turns onto his side to face me. He’s so different from Kieran. Tall and broad to Kieran’s medium build. Mossy colored eyes to Kieran’s blue. Hugh is rugged and manly with that deep Scottish burr, while Kieran has that boyish quality I love so much, paired with his lyrical Irish lilt that still makes my heart race. One way they’re similar, though: they both have hearts of gold.
“How are you feeling?” Hugh asks.
I shake my head, unable to find words to articulate the storm of emotions rolling through my mind and heart.
