After a while, she asks, “Are you going to marry him?”
The question catches me off guard, and I laugh. “I don’t know, Cass. I don’t even know if he likes me like that. I’m still figuring it out. But I promise you, no one is marrying anyone until you and I have had about a hundred more talks like this one.”
She laughs, a hiccup through her tears, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in ages.
“Okay,” she says, sniffling. “Just…let me know before you do anything crazy, all right?”
I cross my heart. “You’ll be the first to know.”
We stay tangled together, her head under my chin, my arms around her. The radiator clanks, the wind howls, and the world shrinks down to the blue-lit cocoon of this room. I think of all the ways I’ve tried to protect her from sadness, all the stories I’ve told to keep her safe, and realize that the most important thing I can do is let her see me try, even if it means showing her my own fear.
Eventually, she raises her head. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Of course,” I say, bracing myself for the next question.
“Do you think Dad would be okay with this? With you and Nathan?”
I find myself searching for a quiet place, where all the echoes of Kyle still reside. The way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, how he held me close on nights when the world felt too big and chaotic to face alone. "I think…" I start slowly, carefully, aware that this is a delicate terrain. "I think your dad would want us both to be happy, don’t you?” I watch her face as I say this, searching for the flicker of belief.
"I guess," she mumbles, but there's a little less tension in her shoulders that I take as a small victory.
She rises from her perch at the table, leaving an imprint on the cushion that slowly fades away. “Okay,” she says, and there’s a new conviction in her voice. She heads for the stairs, but just before she ascends, she pauses and looks back at me.
“Thanks, Mom,” she says, words threaded together with an understanding that feels older than her years. “For listening.”
19
Diane
By late afternoon, my earlier conversation with Cassie is still lingering in my mind. Fortunately, Sara has invited me over to her place, leaving me a chance to escape from the remnants of my thoughts.
She is waiting for me on the back porch, a glass of sweet tea in her good hand. I’ve been so busy lately with the novel and Cassie that I haven’t noticed how much Sara has changed. Her hair, once thick, now carries a wispiness that speaks of the worsening of her condition. And that’s not all. Even her gait, once agile and sprightly, has slowed down to a measured shuffle.
Inside, the house carries the scent of old books and years of memories. There are photos on every wall now, some of her kids, some in caps and gowns, some clutching fish almost as big as their bodies. On the piano sits a faded wedding portrait, Sara in bell sleeves and a crown of wild daisies, Andrew standing behind her with his hand barely resting on her shoulder, both of them squinting into the sun. There are books everywhere, whole driftwood shelves of them, and a wall calendar with every square marked in her loopy script.Doctor’s appointments, bridge club, SHELL SALE!!!,Cassie’s birthdaycircled three times in red.
Sara lowers herself into the living room armchair, breathing a little heavier. “If you want to see the only decent picture of Andrew,” she says, “it’s over there.” She points to the mantel, where a single five-by-seven stands alone, framed in rough slate. I cross to it and pick it up. He’s older here than in the wedding photo, his hair gone white, but the eyes are the same. I imagine the voice that went with them, the clever retorts, the dry jokes. I understand immediately how a person could fall in love with a face like this and know too well how hard it must have been to let it go.
When I turn back, Sara is trying to stand. Her hands grip the armrests, knuckles white with effort. I set the photo down and hurry to her side, but she’s already up, swaying a little.
“I’m fine,” she insists, but I see the panic flash in her eyes, just for a second, before the mask drops back into place. She takes a halting step, then another, before her knees buckle and she sinks back into the chair, breathing hard.
I kneel in front of her, afraid to touch but unable to look away. “Should I call someone?”
Sara shakes her head, fiercely. “No. Just…give me a minute.” Her voice is brittle, almost angry, but I stay where I am, feeling helpless and intrusive and terrified all at once.
We stay like that, the only sounds the whir of a distant ceiling fan and the slow, deliberate count of her breaths. After a few minutes, the color returns to her face, and her jaw unclenches.
“I’m supposed to be the wise old crone,” she says, a grim smile forcing itself up. “Not the tragic hero.”
“You can be both,” I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice.
She laughs, a thin thread of sound, but it seems to help. “Do me a favor?” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen.
“Anything.”
“Could you water the succulents on the sill? I always forget.”
I do, and as the tap runs and the glass fills, I spot the evidence I’ve been looking for—a neat row of prescription bottles on the counter, one of them already tipped and rolling slowly against the backsplash. I right it, read the label—something I can’t pronounce—but the warning stickers are all the same:MAY CAUSE DIZZINESS, TAKE WITH FOOD, CAUTION OPERATING HEAVY MACHINERY. I set it gently back in line, wondering if the pills are helping or just slowing her down, tamping the vital parts so she won’t suffer too much on the way out.