“I don’t care.”
But he runs me a shower anyway, and when I’m clean and wearing his shirt he pulls me into bed and holds me until exhaustion finally drags me under.
I dream about Mom. About Rodriguez. About Winters’ face when I told him off.
About all the ways this could go wrong.
26
MARNIE
The team’swheels-up is at noon for a quick Midwest swing—St. Louis tonight, Dallas tomorrow, back Thursday.
I watch from the medical office window as buses load, trying not to feel pathetic about how empty Roman’s text from twenty minutes ago made me feel.
Roman
Wish you were coming. Hate leaving you right now.
I’ll be fine. Win some games.
Roman
Call me if you need anything. I mean it.
I won’t call. We both know I won’t call.
I’ll sit in hospice rooms or stare at my apartment walls or work extra hours and pretend I’m fine until he’s back.
Rodriguez is leaning against the facility wall on crutches, watching the last bus pull away with the expression of someone watching their friends leave for a party they can’t attend.
“This sucks,” he announces when I approach.
“Your knee will thank you.”
“My knee is ungrateful.” He shifts his weight. “What’s your excuse? You’re cleared for travel.”
The truth is I can’t stomach the thought of being on a plane, in a hotel, pretending to be normal while Mom’s here dying. Can’t be that far away when the call comes.
Because it’s coming. The hospice nurses have made that clear.
“Just need to be here right now,” I say instead.
“Yeah. That makes sense.” We stand there watching the empty parking lot. “Hey. I’ve been trapped in my apartment for two days and I’m losing my mind. You look like you could use a break from staring at hospice walls. Want to hang out tonight? We can do exercises, order food, watch bad TV, not think about sad shit for a few hours?”
I should say no. Should go to hospice, sit with Mom even though she won’t know I’m there, be the dutiful daughter instead of the exhausted one running on fumes.
But the thought of another night in that room, holding her hand while she sleeps, waiting for something I can’t stop?—
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “But we’re doing your exercises first.”
“Deal. Six o’clock?”
I spendthe afternoon at hospice anyway because guilt is more powerful than exhaustion.
Mom’s sleeping, breathing steady but shallow. The nurse tells me she had a “good morning”—which apparently means she ate half her breakfast and knew what year it was.
I missed it. Was at the arena watching buses leave while Mom was lucid.
