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I sit beside her, and she wraps her arms around me, presses her face to my chest, and breaks into a million pieces. Her desolation squeezes my heart. I hold her and tell her I understand. Though maybe that’s not true. I know death, and creatures like me exist to ease the way, but I’ve never experienced a personal loss even though I feel hers as if it were my own.
It’s two in the morning when she falls asleep.
My part in this is long over, and I should leave, but I watch her sleep. I hold her in my arms as if she’s mine. Before the sun is fully up, I wrap a blanket around her and ease her onto the cushions.
Retreating to the kitchen, I make a pot of coffee.
“You’re still here?” She stretches. Even with her eyes swollen and her hair sticking out in all directions, she’s beautiful.
“I didn’t want you to wake up alone.” I hand her a cup of black coffee.
Taking a sip, she sighs. “That’s nice of you, Mr. Montgomery.”
The fact that she remembers my name is surprising. The way she looks at me stirs something deep in my chest. I want to go to her and hold her again, but I stay in the kitchen. “Please, call me Declan. Do you need a ride to town this morning?”
She shakes her head. “My poppy arranged his own funeral. It’s all worked out and paid for.”
“That was very thoughtful of him.”
“Yeah. That’s how he was.” She stands. “I’d better get cleaned up. I just have one question.” Her gray eyes bore into mine.
“What’s your question?”
“What are you?” She puts the coffee cup on the counter.
My heart pounds. For the first time, I want to tell someone the truth. For the first time, someone asked about me. Everything, since I met Anabelle Tipton, has been a first. “I’m a… kind of… hospice worker.”
She shakes her head again. “Is that the story you’re sticking with?”
I shrug. Not liking the idea of lying outright, I hope she’ll let it go.
Worse than anything she might say, she looks disappointed in me. “You can go now. Thank you for staying. I’m sorry Poppy put you on the spot, but it was really kind of you. Tell Mable I’m fine.”
It’s not true. She’s not fine. Still, she’s not mine to care for. “I’ll tell her. Take care of yourself, Anabelle.”
She walks into a bathroom and closes the door.
Taking my cue, I exit, which is what I should have done as soon as Roger moved on. Had I stayed because a dying man asked it of me? Should I have stayed longer? This is all new territory.
As I drive down country roads toward the highway, I can’t get Anabelle Tipton’s sweet face out of my mind.
