“I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I say. “I just wanted to explain how it feels. Like every step I take, I have to rehearse all the ways it could go wrong in case it does.”
“That’s called being a mom.” There’s a ghost of a grin, but when he lifts his water glass, his hands are steady.
I stare into his eyes long enough to see my reflection swimming there and wonder what he sees in me that makes him believe I am worth the trouble. Perhaps he just wants to rescuesomeone, and right now I’m the nearest shipwreck. Or maybe he actually sees me as I am, stripped to scar tissue and sinew, and finds beauty in the survival. Maybe it doesn’t matter why, just that he keeps showing up, even when the signals are all crossed and the landing strip is on fire.
We clear the table quietly, almost companionable now, moving in a rhythm of small negotiations. I rinse, he loads, I wipe, he sweeps. When the kitchen is squared away, I drift upstairs to check on Cassie. Nathan lingers below, his footsteps soft and then absent. I realize he’s gone out again, probably to sit on the steps and think. For a second, I wonder if I should follow, but inertia holds me in place.
I disentangle from Cassie, kiss her forehead, and move down the hall to Sara’s room.
She is asleep when I open the door, her mouth slightly open, breath shallow in the hush. I slip in and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her. But even in sleep, she winces, some interior pain squeezing her brow into a knot. The skin along her collarbone is almost translucent, delicate as old paper, and I realize how little time we have.
Sara’s hand, under the covers, is curled around the sheet, and I want to loosen her grip, to smooth her forehead, to make promises that would sound ridiculous and childish, like “It’s going to be okay,” or “I won’t let anything bad happen.” Instead, I just sit there, silent and small, and try to imagine the next day, and the day after, and what it will mean for Cassie and myself.
When I return to the kitchen, Nathan and Cassie are at the table, heads bent together over a crossword puzzle.
I make tea, measure out the honey, and watch as Cassie fills in answers, her tongue poking out in concentration.
Nathan catches my eye, just for a second. There’s no smile, but something has shifted, a new gravity holding us in place.
We drink our tea and listen as the wind rattles the loose pane in the back window.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if anything will ever feel easy again.
But for now, we’re all here, holding fast against the undertow.
25
Diane
When the hospice nurse shows up at Sara’s the next morning, the transformation is abrupt. Gone is any pretense of normalcy. The nurse, a woman named Dee, arrives with a rolling suitcase and voice pitched for reassurance, all bright vowels and cheer.
Judy is not far behind, her suitcase thumping across the porch like a warning shot. Relief and guilt twist together in my gut. She arrives with the air of a general entering a war-zone, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a determined line.
Sara is in her chair, diminished and fragile but fiercely upright. She seems to expand a little when Judy enters, as if buoyed by the prospect of being properly fussed over. I hang back in the kitchen, fingers slick with the juice from a clementine I’m peeling for Cassie, and watch the choreography as Judy orchestrates a symphony of care around Sara.
Within twenty minutes, Sara is tucked into a blanket, the morning TV tuned to a gardening show, and Cassie is dispatched to the den to build a castle out of the spare cushions and old quilts from the hall closet. Judy finds me by the sink, where I’m methodically pulling apart the fruit into a bowl, segment bysegment, as if the right arrangement might make the day hold together.
“She’s stable for now,” Judy says. “You’ve done a hell of a job. You should take a break. I mean it, Diane. Go do something for yourself. I’ll hold down the fort until you get back, scout’s honor.”
The words should make me laugh, but instead I blink hard and nod. My heart is racing for no discernible reason, a woodpecker pulse that refuses to settle. I scrape the clementine pith from my nails and set the bowl in front of Cassie, who beams as if I’ve delivered her a Nobel Prize.
“Maybe you should go for a swim,” she tells me, cheeks sticky from the first wedge. “Or go shopping. That might cheer you up.” There is a hopefulness to her voice, an eagerness for me to reclaim even the smallest piece of normal.
I ruffle her hair, trying not to show how much it costs to let go. “I’ll figure something out,” I say, and slip out the back door.
The air is so dense with salt and humidity that the world feels slightly underwater. I walk down to the cottage and stand there in the kitchen, hands in my pockets, as if waiting for some sign of what comes next.
The phone rings, sudden and sharp. Nathan.
“Hey,” I say, voice weirdly breathless.
“Hey yourself. Did the cavalry finally arrive?”
“Yes. Judy’s here now, and so is the hospice nurse. She’s setting all the equipment up and getting Sara’s meds sorted out. Judy insisted that I take a break."
“She’s right, you know? Listen, I don’t want to step on any toes, but—” There’s a pause, a shuffling sound, the scratch of a pencil or a thumb across wood. “Would you want to get coffee this morning? Or, I don’t know, take a walk? No pressure. You just sounded—last night, I mean—you sounded like you could use a change of scenery.”
“Yeah. I’d really like that.”