Page 81 of Lost and Found

“Of course I will,” he says. I can see his soft smile from here.

“You’re sure this isn’t too much?” I ask.

“I’m certain.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s usually whatcertainmeans, Red. And I promise you. I am.”

Time does what it always does. Drags through every minute and flies by in days.

The morning of the transfer arrives like any other. Unassuming and overcast. I opt for decaf tea instead of coffee today and take the proffered Valium I was prescribed without debate, and by god, that stuff is heaven. A warm blanket for my psyche. It’s not until Silas is pulling us into the parking lot that I realize he hasn’t pushed me to make conversation. Merely he’s kept a stream of music playing and remained a quiet, steady presence at my side, my hand threaded through his and anoccasional kiss to my knuckles. He’s always had a read on me like that, hasn’t he?

Inside the clinic office, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes comes up to Silas and me and says, “You two are such a beautiful couple. Good luck.”

I look down at where I’m clutching his hand. He thanks her smoothly, charmingly, while I stay stuck on mute. His grip remains firm and warm around my clammy palm, dimples winking in his unshorn face.

They’re guiding us back now. I’m not sure why I expect it to be a cold, white-walled laboratory of some kind. It’s just a regular old patient room. A regular old cushioned bed with a paper liner and all. I change into the sartorial hospital smock while Silas quietly folds my clothes. And then I lie back and wait.

Time does what it always does. The seconds crawl by like years. Silas scooches his seat as close as he can get it and holds my hand again.

“Have you ever been to Mount Hood?” he asks.

“Not since I was little. I’ve driven by it, of course. But I haven’t visited in a long time.”

“That’s where the campout is with my burn group,” he says. “I guess the trail is about ten miles round trip. We’ll stop for lunch and swim in these pools where the water is, like, turquoise green, Bea.”

“Like your eyes?” I’ll blame the Valium for that later.

His puff of a laugh cools the tear on my cheek. “Sure, baby,” he says, thumbing it away.

“Isn’t it, like, a three-hour drive to get there? We’ll have to expand your playlists before then. I can’t do three hours of your groan-y songs that are all sung exclusively in vowel sounds,” I say, grasping for levity.

“Anything for you, Red . . . Just no classical, all right? Or instrumental stuff.”

“How come?”

He wipes a hand over his brow with a faint groan and a lopsided wince, sighing like he’s about to admit something embarrassing. “Classical music—a lot of it, at least—makes me cry. You put on something without someone else’s words filling it, and it’s like my brain starts putting on its own slideshow. Don’t get me started on bagpipes.”

Ow. My chest actually burns with tenderness. “Bagpipes?”

“Bagpipes,” he confirms with a stony nod.

“Do you have any other dark secrets you’re keeping from me, Silas?” I tease.

He appears to give it some thought before he grimaces. “I can sing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Unfortunately, no. I open my mouth and Ray LaMontagne comes out.” His mouth tugs down in a grim line.

“Silas Byrd, don’t you ever, ever, ever dedicate a song to me publicly.”

He lets out a startled laugh. “I swear. Never.”

You know what they say about those, I think. “But I will be making you sing around the house, now.”

Dr. Nielsen comes in then, and Time performs another one of her tricks. The good doctor walks me through what will take place before it does. A gust of air will send my tiny Martian, my embryo, up into me, where I hope my body will catch and keep it.