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She whirls from me, grabbing Kayti’s blanket off a chair before she snatches the bag of medication from my hand and flies out the door. Good thing Kayti’s dose is unchanged from her last infection; I never did tell Anna how much. I stand at the door for a few moments, breathing in great tugs, wiping my face.
Then I turn the lock, flip the lights out, and walk numbly into the living quarters. I should eat, perhaps. It’s been near twelve hours. I pull out a round, white plate that was my Mum’s, a loaf of bread, some jam and peanut butter. I stare at the plate’s edge.
“Why use that plate for a simple sandwich? It’s quite larger than the sandwich will be. Bit of wasted space.”
I flinch at the voice in my head. It’s been so long…I suppose I don’t expect to hear him narrating my actions—no more. Once my brain is compromised, though, he won’t hush up. Memories play like a record as my shaking hands assemble the sandwich.
“Why are you making that damnable soup again? Who asked for tumeric soup?”
“I’ve had a long day. Shouldn’t my food be waiting? Or do you cook simply when you feel the urge?”
I stare down at the sandwich as it blurs about the edges. It looks perfectly nice despite the extra space on the plate. There’s nothing wrong with how I make a sandwich. Just as there was nothing wrong with Mummy.
I set the plate down and walk woodenly into the bedroom, where I slip my shoes off, lie down in the bed, and pull the covers over myself. I haven’t slept here regularly in so long, the sheets smell stale and odd. Beneath my pillow, I find my old, brown rosary—the one I got in girlhood.
I don’t pray the rosary, but simply clutch it as I lie on my back, rigid as a corpse.
Please help me. Oh, please. Please help me. Please help me. Tears roll into my ears, and I whisper the word aloud, half chanting. “Please. Please. Please.” Each time I say it, my eyelids feel heavier.
Knocking wakes me. I’m aware of knocking, and my racing heart. The quiet house. I wonder if I dreamed the knock, and then I hear it again: two more raps, delivered with a heavy hand. A male hand.
Terror rolls through me. I never checked the ship schedule…
I sit up. Take a thorough breath. The knocking comes again, less rhythmic this time. I slip on my shoes and drift into the clinic. It’s all dark inside. Through the closed blinds, slits of white moonlight. I can’t see the clock on the far wall, so I’ve no idea what time it is. Trepidation trills through me with every step toward the door.
I don’t know why I’m so sure it’s going to be him. Sometimes I get pulled into another place. Something happens, I’m flashed back to the past…delivered to the clutches of my old, familiar fears.
Were you as damaged as me, Mummy?
You deserved more.
If we are nothing but the flesh and motion summation of our DNA, then I am her—extended. In my bones I know I’m certainly no more. I’m like a bird I once saw flapping its wings just atop the rocks near Hidden Cove. On first glimpse, I couldn’t understand how it could flap its wings so fiercely and remain motionless, not taking flight. Then I moved nearer and saw its foot caught in some moss.
I have no hope, no expectation as I open the door. So I can feel the warm life force that pulses through me when I see him.
His hair looks like a choppy sea. His face is swarthy with a two-day pirate’s beard. My hungry gaze falls to his mouth—that lush, archangel’s mouth, so out of place among the harsher landscape of his nose, cheekbones, thick brows. Finally, I dare his eyes, and I think I now understand the phrases from novels. I could fall into those eyes, never emerging.
“Finley?”
I drag my gaze away from his. On his jaw there is a bit of reddish pink. I can smell Holly’s perfume and the sharp stench of liquor. Cold air billows in around his broad form. My gaze darts to his.
“You’re home,” he murmurs. There’s emotion in his voice—perhaps surprise, although naively I fancy that it sounds like wonder.
I want to rail that this is not my home. I’m homeless. Does it matter if I have a home besides? My life is over, even as he’s fighting to determine if he wants to go on living his when he returns home.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Can I come in?”
Something flashes in his eyes—a sort of flame. I can’t be sure because I look away again. Self-preservation. Love is reckless, and the heart gets out ahead of the soul. Mine feels like an anchor dragging me down through the floor.
I look at his face. This time, I won’t cast my eyes down. “Did her mouth feel like mine?”
His lips twist as his brows gather. “What?”
“Did Holly’s lips feel like my lips on your jaw?”
He frowns.
