But her left hand is trembling now, too, and the color is draining from her face. She tries to stand and sways, the chair scraping sharply against the tile. Her knees buckle, and she grabs for the counter, missing by inches.
“Jesus,” I whisper, reaching out just in time to catch her before she hits the floor.
She’s heavier than I expect—a sudden, uncooperative weight—and together we slide to the ground, her head thumping against my shoulder, the robe tangling around both of us. The back of her neck is slick with sweat. Her breath comes in ragged puffs, each one smaller than the last. For a second, I panic, the whole world narrowing to the frantic scramble for meaning. My hands are shaking, but I force them steady.
“Talk to me,” I say, and her eyelids flicker.
“Bathroom. There’s a bottle. Blue label. Need it now.”
I rush to the bathroom, my heart pounding in my ears. The blue-labeled bottle is on the counter, amid a cluster of half-empty pillboxes. There’s no prescription label, just a small sticker withemergency onlyscribbled in Sara’s tight handwriting. I pour two pills into my hand and set off for the kitchen.
Sara is slumped against the edge of the island, head lolling. I hand her the pills and she dry-swallows them, then sits, breathing in shallow, measured sips, while I kneel beside her and try not to shake.
The lights overhead flicker, and for a heartbeat I imagine us trapped here, in this room, forever. Then the bulbs settle, and Sara’s color begins to return, slowly, like water filling a bay.
“Better,” she manages, after a long minute. “Sorry. It’s always like this in the morning.”
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” I ask, already preparing to hoist her upright.
She shakes her head. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Help me up?”
I get her back to the kitchen table, and she sags into the chair, her fingers clawing at the armrests. She tries to say something else, but the effort costs too much, and instead she just closes her eyes.
I stand behind her, hands hovering just above her shoulders. I want to touch her, to steady her, to make this all less real. Instead, I turn back to the stove, hands numb, and pour her a fresh cup of coffee. This time, I add sugar and milk, thinking of the way she took it at the bakery last week. When I set it down in front of her, she opens her eyes, the pupils tiny pinholes now, and she gives me a look that is equal parts gratitude and apology.
“Thanks, Diane,” she whispers, and there’s nothing left of the iron-voiced woman who commanded storm and child alike.
From the living room, Cassie’s voice drifts in. “Mom?”
I go to her, my own limbs wobbly. She doesn’t ask what happened; she just knows. She eases into the kitchen, silent as a ghost, and slips into the chair beside Sara, her hand resting lightly atop the older woman’s. Sara doesn’t flinch. She just pats Cassie’s hand with her own, the two of them communicating in a series of tiny, calibrated gestures.
“I’ll make you something to eat,” I say, because it’s all I can think to do.
I scramble eggs, burn the toast, fumble the lid on the strawberry jam. Every movement is a parody of normalcy, as if I’m acting in some amateur play where the script is missing entire pages. The tension is so thick I want to claw it from the air.
I’m still at the stove, my back to the others, when the doorbell rings. I freeze, spatula in midair, and exchange a glance with Cassie. She shrugs, but her eyes are alert, as if anything could walk through that door.
I wipe my hands and answer. On the porch, shivering in a damp windbreaker and carrying a steaming plastic tub, is Nathan.
He looks different in daylight, smaller, somehow. His jaw is unshaven, his hair is curling at the collar. His eyes, always darting, find mine and hold fast.
“Soup delivery,” he says, holding out the container like an offering. “Thought you might need something warm.”
For a second, I don’t know what to do. There’s a line in his forehead, a question that he doesn’t want to ask. Behind me, the house is full of the acrid smell of burned toast and the low, animal sound of Sara’s breathing.
I let him in and he hands me the tub. He stands uncertain in the hallway, dripping a slow, careful puddle onto the mat.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head, lips pressed thin. “Sara had an episode.”
Nathan steps into the kitchen without waiting for invitation. He surveys the room, the scene. Sara is slumped at the table, Cassie’s hand atop hers, the evidence of crisis everywhere. He moves with a confidence I envy, opening cabinets, fetching bowls, setting the soup to warm on the stove. His hands are steady, practiced. When he ladles the broth, he does so withthe care of a surgeon, skimming off the sheen of oil, testing the temperature on the inside of his wrist.
He brings the first bowl to Sara, crouching beside her. He offers a spoonful, waits while she swallows. He says nothing, but his presence fills the space, drawing the anxiety out of the air and into himself.
After a while, Sara rallies enough to feed herself. She sips the soup in tiny, ceremonial mouthfuls, each swallow a visible effort.
I stand at the counter, my hands shaking so badly I have to press them flat against the granite. Nathan sidles up beside me, his voice barely above a whisper.