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“I’ll never forget us. ”
I know that. Now, go. Live. It’s such a gift … and … tell my boys—
“I know,” I say quietly. She has given me messages. I hold the words close to my heart, tuck them into my soul. I will tell Lucas that his mother comes to him at night and whispers in his ear and watches over his sleep, that she is happy and wants the same for him … I’ll tell Wills it’s okay to be sad and to stop fighting to fill that empty space where his mom used to be. I’m not gone, that was her message. Just away. I’ll teach them all the things she would have, and make sure they know how much she loves them.
Turning away from her is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Instantly I am cold, and my body feels heavy. There is a huge black hill in front of me, so steep it seems to push me back when I try to climb it.
At the top, there is a flash of light. I strain forward, lean into it, take another step.
The light is moving away from me.
I have to get to the top, where the world is, but I am so tired, so tired. Still, I keep trying. I climb slowly. Each step fights me. The darkness pushes back. Starlight turns to snow and each falling flake burns my skin. But there is a light, and it’s getting stronger. It is like a lighthouse beam, flashing every now and then to show me the way.
I am breathing hard now, thinking, Please, realizing it is a prayer. The first real one of my life.
I am not going to make it.
No.
I will make it. I imagine Katie beside me, just like the old days, pushing our bikes up Summer Hill with only moonlight to guide us. I surge forward, and suddenly I am cresting the hill. I smell gardenia and dried lavender.
Light is everywhere now, hurting my eyes, blinding me. It comes from a small conical thing beside me.
I blink, trying to control my breathing.
“I did it, Katie,” I whisper, my voice too small to be heard. Maybe I don’t even say it aloud. I wait for her to say, I know, but there is only the sound of my breathing.
I open my eyes again, try to focus. There is someone beside me; I see her in slashes of light and shadow. A face, looking down at me.
Marah. She looks like she used to, beautiful and healthy. “Tully?” she says cautiously, as if I am a spirit or an illusion.
If I am dreaming, I welcome it. I am back. “Marah,” takes me forever to say.
* * *
I try to hold on, to stay, but I can’t do it. Time falls away from me. I open my eyes—see Marah and Margie—and I try to smile, but I am so weak. And is that my mother’s face? I try to say something; all that comes out is a croak of sound. And maybe I imagine it.
The next thing I know, I am asleep again.
Twenty-eight
Dorothy sat in the hospital waiting room, hands clasped in her lap, knees pressed together so closely the knobby bones bumped each other every time she moved. They were all here now: Johnny and his twin sons; Marah, who looked glazed and nervous and couldn’t seem to sit still; Margie and Bud. It had been three days since Tully opened her eyes and tried to speak. They had immediately moved her back to the hospital, where the waiting game had begun again.
It had seemed like a miracle, at first, but now Dorothy wasn’t so sure. She knew better than to believe in miracles, anyway, didn’t she?
Dr. Bevan assured them that Tully was truly waking; he told them that it often took time to become fully conscious after so long a sleep. He warned them that there would probably be some lasting effects, and that certainly made sense. You couldn’t sleep for a year and then wake up and ask for coffee and a donut.
For months, Dorothy had prayed for this. She’d knelt at her daughter’s bedside every evening. It was uncomfortable, painful on her aging joints, but she was pretty sure that the pain was part of the price. So she knelt and she prayed, night after night, as autumn darkened into winter and then brightened again into spring. She prayed while her vegetables put down their roots and gathered the strength to grow; she prayed while the apples budded on her trees and began to ripen. Her prayer was always the same: Please, God, let her wake up.
In all that time, through the journey of her desperate words, she’d never allowed herself to really think about this moment. She’d been afraid to imagine an answer to her prayers, as if her need could jinx it.
That was what she’d told herself, anyway. Now she saw that it was another in the long string of lies she’d told herself over the years. She hadn’t dared to imagine this moment because it terrified her.
What if Tully woke up and wanted nothing to do with her?
It was certainly a likely scenario. Dorothy had been a terrible parent for so long, and now, when she’d finally learned to be better, finally dared to let herself tumble into motherhood, it was not real. Not for Tully, anyway, who had slept through the whole thing.
“You’re humming again,” Margie said gently.
