I turned to him. “I’m not letting you clean up my apartment, Whit,” I snapped. “You’ve done enough for me. Jesus—I’m not completely helpless!”
He stepped back, raising his hands. “I never said you were helpless. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel that way.” He moved aside and let me work, not interfering while I finished wiping up the mess.
When I threw away the last of the paper towels, he asked, “What happened?”
I hesitated, weighing how much I could tell him—how much Ishouldtell him—about what had been going on without sounding unhinged. I didn’t want his pity. Not for me. Not for Henry’s health. But I needed someone to talk to, someone to tell me it would be okay.
And I wanted that someone to be him.
I turned away and began closing the cabinet doors so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’m worried about Henry,” I said, starting with the safest topic. “He’s struggling again. I’m taking him to the doctor this week. We’re probably looking at another transfusion. But those only work for so long.”
“If you’re worried about the medical bills—” Whit began, but I cut him off.
“No,” I said. But of course, I was. “I’ll figure that out somehow.” A bitter laugh slipped out. “What’s one more payment plan, right?”
“Zellie—”
I shook my head. “It’s fine, Whit. I’m just tired.” I closed the final cabinet door and leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling the weight of…everything.
“All the more reason to accept help where it’s offered,” he said from where he stood across the room, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I sighed. “I’m just not used to having help. I appreciate everything you’ve done for Henry and me—whatallof you have done for us.”
He gave me a crooked grin. “Well, I hope you’re still grateful after dinner. You saw my last attempt at cooking.”
I laughed, the sound half-hearted, betraying my exhaustion. “Well, it can’t be worse than what I just cleaned up. David’s in rare form today.”
He blanched at my words. “Who?”
Damn.
I hadn’t meant to tell him about anything going on with the intruders. Henry and I had grown so comfortable talking about David that it just slipped out.
“David,” I repeated. “I originally thought he was Henry’s imaginary friend, but…I think he’s a ghost. We’ve had a lot of weird things happening.”
Whit’s frown deepened. “Weird how?”
I waved a hand dismissively, vaguely noting he hadn’t even questioned the “ghost” part of my statement. “Oh, you know…the usual. Lights turning on and off, feeling watched, stuff moving on its own, noises…” I laughed, trying to make light of it, not yet ready to share the more horrifying events. “All the usual activity you see on those reality TV ghost shows.”
His eyes narrowed—not with disbelief, but more like quiet, searching concern, as if he was trying to figure out if there was more that I wasn’t telling him. And because there wasa lotmore I didn’t want to tell him, I turned away and startedunpacking the groceries. “So,” I said looking over my shoulder with a smile, “what’s on the menu tonight?”
Henry rallied during dinner, animatedly chatting with Whit about TV shows and books Whit clearly knew nothing about but still listened to Henry as if he were the most fascinating person in the world, asking questions and commenting on Henry’s vivid descriptions. But as the evening wound down, Henry started to complain about his bones hurting.
“You must be growing,” Whit said. “Where does it hurt?”
Henry rubbed his knees, wincing, and then pointed to his shoulders, arms, hips.
“C’mon, baby,” I said, picking him up. “Let’s get your medicine and a warm bath.”
“I’ll clean up,” Whit said, rising to gather the dishes.
I shot him a grateful look then took Henry to the bathroom to get him ready for his bath.
“Mama, I don’t like this,” he whimpered, his voice thick with tears. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”
I sat on the floor and pulled him into my lap, rocking him for a little while. “I know, baby,” I murmured, my own tears blurring my vision. The helplessness pressing on me was suffocating. There was nothing worse than seeing my baby in pain and not being able to relieve it. I would’ve taken on his pain myself in a heartbeat. But with that not being an option, all I had were the tools the doctors gave me.
Those aren’t the only tools,my conscience whispered.
