Page 38 of Dearly Departed

“It’s me.”

“I don’t feel good.” His blue eyes are enormous in his face. “Catherine, I don’t feel good.”

“Come back to bed. Everything will be all right. I promise.”

I can’t keep my promise.

Everything isn’t okay. Jacob gets back into the bed. I get the decorative bowl from the wall and stay at his side. He doesn’t fall asleep again, but he’s not lucid.

“Catherine,” he says, over and over again, his hand tightly around mine. “Catherine, please, I want to go home.”

“I know. We’ll go home soon.”

“Please. Don’t make me stay here.”

“I won’t.”

“I promise I won’t eat anything.”

I don’t know where that promise is coming from, but it breaks my heart.

I convince him to drink water.

He’s sick again.

I beg him to swallow some Tylenol. He keeps it down, but the fever is stubborn. My eyes sting and burn and finally my eyelids are so heavy that I think I can’t do it—I can’t stay awake another second—but then Jacob reaches for my face or my hair or my hand, and⁠—

“I’m sorry.” His voice rasps, all dried out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Catherine. I won’t do it again.”

“I know.” I don’t know. I’ll probably never know exactly what he means. “Don’t worry. I love you.”

In the morning, his eyes roll back in his head and all of him tenses up for so long I think it’ll never end.

In the afternoon, something scratches at the door to the cabin.

“Let the dog in.” Jacob’s head is on my chest, his eyes closed, his hand curled into my tank top. “She wants in.”

“I will.”

The scratching continues.

My heart pounds, but Jacob doesn’t notice. I don’t argue with him about anything he says. Not even the dog that’s not a dog at the door.

I keep my eyes on the window. There’s no curtain. If Raymond Harris is here—if something worse is here—if someone worse is here—then at least I’ll know.

Maybe I’d rather not know.

Now, I think. He’s going to be in the window…now. Now. Now.

No faces appear in the window.

Eventually, the scratching stops.

The night is endless. So is Jacob’s fever.

I can’t stay awake. I can’t fall asleep.

I can’t stop listening for noises at the door. I can’t hear anything but the forest outside. Sometimes, I’m sure I can hear the waterfall. Other times, I’m sure I’ve imagined the waterfall.