For a while, none of us speak. The monitor slows, then picks up, then slows again. I rub the back of Sara’s hand with my thumb, tracing the veins like tiny rivers, trying to memorize their course.
Then Sara’s eyes open. Not all the way, just a sliver, but it’s enough to draw us all in, gravity realigning. She scans the room, the corners of her mouth pulled into a dry smile.
“Took you long enough,” she rasps, her voice nothing but gravel and air.
I lean forward, clinging to her hand. “We’re here, Sara. Cassie’s here, and Nathan, and Judy, and?—”
She closes her eyes, then opens them again, more deliberate this time. “Promised you’d come.” The words are slurred, but the shape of them is clear.
Cassie stands, shell in hand, and walks over to the bed. She lays her free hand on top of Sara’s, next to mine, the three of uswoven together by skin and heat and the faint metallic smell of the IV.
Sara’s gaze finds Cassie, and the lines on her face soften. “My favorite mermaid,” she whispers. “Don’t let your mother give away my books.”
“I won’t,” Cassie says, voice steady. “I’ll keep them. Promise.”
Sara turns her head, a monumental effort, and finds Nathan. “And you, young man—” She coughs, the sound thin and wet. Nathan sits up straighter, caught in the beam of her attention. “Don’t let her wall herself up. You hear me?”
Nathan nods, swallowing hard. “I hear you, Sara.”
She shifts her gaze to me, and I feel the weight of it, heavier than anything she’s ever asked before. “Diane,” she says. My name is a command, not a plea. “Promise me.”
“Promise what?” My voice breaks on the word, and I hate how fragile I sound.
“That you’ll write. That you’ll finish the damn book. That you’ll let yourself be happy.” Her lips quirk. “Don’t waste time grieving for an old lady. Live the life you were meant to live.”
The room wobbles, horizon tilting. I nod, but it’s not enough. She waits, eyes sharp as thumbtacks.
“I promise,” I say, the words stuttering out of me. “I promise, Sara. I’ll try.”
“That’s my girl.”
Finally, she looks at Judy, her eyes narrowing slightly as if focusing takes a Herculean effort. Judy steps forward, her hands wringing the hem of her blouse.
"Sara," she whispers, her voice cracking like a weak branch underfoot.
"Hold onto our secrets, will you?"
“Always,” says Judy, her face a mask of grief and determination.
The monitor blips faster, then evens out. Sara closes her eyes, and her breathing grows shallow, each inhale more tentative than the last. For a few minutes, the only sign of life is the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket and the damp shine on her cheeks where the tears have escaped.
Nathan takes my free hand, interlacing our fingers. Cassie leans her head against my shoulder, her hair tickling my chin, and we sit like that, a tangle of need and memory and dread, until the air in the room changes.
It’s not a dramatic thing, not a rush or a gasp. It’s just that one moment, Sara is here and the next, she isn’t. The grip of her hand goes slack, the tremor stilled. The monitor skips a beat, then another, then draws a single, unbroken line.
The nurse comes in, silent as a shadow, and checks the chart. She touches Sara’s wrist, then her neck, then straightens the blanket over her knees. She says something I don’t hear, and Nathan lets go of my hand to sign a paper. Cassie presses the shell into Sara’s palm, arranging her fingers around it.
When the nurse leaves, it’s just us again, and the silence is so profound I feel it in the bones of my teeth.
I keep holding Sara’s hand, even though it’s cooling by the second, even though there’s nothing left to anchor. My shoulders shake, and I try to muffle the sound against the crook of my elbow, but it escapes anyway, an ugly animal noise that I haven’t made since the night Kyle died.
Judy buries her face in her hands, body shaking. Nathan wraps both arms around me, and Cassie curls into my lap, her body so small and fierce.
After a while, I lay Sara’s hand gently on her chest and wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. Her mouth is open just a little, and her eyes are closed, as if she’s already dreaming.
“Goodbye, Sara,” I whisper, but it’s not enough. I want to fill the room with words, with all the things I never said and neverwill. I want her to hear how much she mattered, how every kindness she gave me is stitched into my skin. But the air is too thick, and the words dissolve before I can push them out.
I let my head fall onto the bed, my hair mingling with the blanket, and for a while, I just breathe, filling my lungs with the last trace of her, holding it as long as I can.