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Mrs. DaCosta was at the picnic table closest to the pine tree forest skirting the area. Through the branches, Les saw the neighborhood houses. Several mothers were here, their children playing on the equipment. The only vehicle other than Brick’s truck was probably Mrs. DaCosta’s, since it was in the spot nearest her picnic table. The mothers had strollers, suggesting they’d walked from their homes.
As they parked next to Mrs. DaCosta’s blue SUV, Les noted an adhesive stick figure family in the back window. Two parents, a daughter, and a cat. One baby boy. That would have been Llanzo.
Les’s mother had displayed steel magnolia stoicism after her husband’s death, except for a few key moments. Like when Les had found Elaine standing in the bathroom doorway, staring at her father’s razor by the sink. “The big things are a punch in the stomach, taking your air,” her mother murmured. “But the little ones are knife blades. You should bleed to death from all the cuts, but they space themselves out, take you by surprise.”
A rare poetic insight from a perpetually rational woman. But she was also the woman who’d thought they should name their daughter Celestial Joy, if the angels decided to take her back.
“Les.” Brick touched her white-knuckled hand. “You with me?”
She tore her gaze from the car window. “Doctors are prepped in a million ways for losing a patient. But nothing prepares the family for it.”
“That’s why you’re here. It’s when the world is at its cruelest that we value kindness the most. Go out there as yourself. No mask, no detachment.”
It was the direction of a Dom, but also the other things he’d said. Her partner, her life mate. His words matched where her own mind was on it. She was entering the ring with no gloves, no defenses. She’d give her opponent as many punches as she needed or wanted.
“That said, if I see you’ve had enough, I’m throwing in the towel and calling it done.”
She also knew he’d wait as long as he could, proving his confidence in her, while being ready to catch her before a knockout punch. “Sports analogies are annoyingly useful,” she said.
A faint smile touched his face. “Aren’t they? Wait there.”
This time she suspected he opened her door to show Mrs. DaCosta she wasn’t alone, though he nodded courteously in her direction. She could feel the mother’s attention on her as she slid out. Brick gripped Les’s arm. “Take as long as you need.”
She walked toward the picnic table. She vaguely registered birdsong, the children on the playground chattering the way they did. Make-believe games with themselves or the other children, admonitions to their mothers to “watch me.”
Had Mrs. DaCosta brought Llanzo here? Of course she had. She would have used the tomato red toddler swings, because he wasn’t yet sturdy enough for the other kind. He’d have ducked in and out of the plastic house. Tic-tac-toe blocks in bright, primary colors were mounted on metal poles in the open window spaces, encouraging the push of small hands.
Her tennis shoes scraped over the sidewalk that formed a perimeter around the playground. But Les was back in the hospital again, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tile as she hurried toward the cardiac unit. She’d heard Llanzo had been brought back in, was in severe distress. She’d arrived at a near run, her heart pounding and breath short, to find out he’d died two minutes and eleven seconds before her arrival.
When she joined the medical team talking to the family, Mrs. DaCosta’s eyes had fixed on her like they did now. As if Les would forever be at the crosshairs of a rifle of emotion she wanted to fire at her heart, obliterating her.
Today, though, Raeni was quiet. Not screaming with rage, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her husband, weeping himself, had helped the orderly pull her back. That night, he’d contained her struggles until she collapsed in his arms, wailing.
Her eyes were dull and quiet, her mouth thin and straight. Her fingers were laced, forearms resting on the picnic table. It had only been a few days since Les had seen her, but she looked like she’d lost ten pounds. It wasn’t all physical weight. The part of the soul that made someone seem alive, active, a member of the human race, wasn’t there right now.
“They say these things should be acted upon in a timely fashion, while everything is still fresh in our minds,” Mrs. DaCosta said, in lieu of a greeting. “I don’t want to get out of bed or eat, but I have a daughter, a husband, and now a lawyer, all wanting something from me. They say it’s good to have someone to care for, to have a goal, even if it’s just to go through the motions.”
Les moved to sit on the bench on the other side, careful not to brush Mrs. DaCosta’s shoes, a pair of Crocs. She wore jeans and a man’s T-shirt, a long open sweater over them. Her hair wasn’t combed, just pulled into a messy tail. She wasn’t wearing makeup or jewelry.
“My mom said that, too, when my dad died,” Les ventured as the silence drew out, as Raeni stared at her, almost vacantly. “She said it the same way, as if it was something you did, not because you believed it, but…”
“Because you don’t know what else to do. It’s all too soon.” Raeni DaCosta’s lips twisted. “I expect you want to know if I’m recording this conversation. If I say yes, will you leave?”
Before Les could answer, she reached into the pocket of the sweater, shivering as if moving gave her a chill. She put the credit card-sized recorder between them. It wasn’t turned on.
“I came because you asked me to come,” Les told her. “And because I didn’t get to say I’m sorry that night.”
“You think saying it changes anything?” Mrs. DaCosta’s voice went up a notch.
“I don’t know. I just know not saying it to you is wrong. And…” Les stopped herself. This wasn’t about her or her feelings. She waited for the mother to take the lead, but when the silence drew out again, she inserted a gentle prompt. “What do you need, Mrs. DaCosta? Why did you ask me to come?”
“Raeni. Call me Raeni. Not because I want us to be informal, but because it hurts to hear the other. I don’t want to be called anything that reminds me I’m supposed to act like an adult.”
Les suddenly didn’t care about hospitals, legal teams, and all the reasons she shouldn’t be here. It didn’t even matter that she was responsible for this woman’s pain. That couldn’t change anything. Assigning blame, everyone thinking about what they should have done differently to help Llanzo and his family, how that impacted any of their lives going forward… All of that was for her to look at another day, in other ways.
Not here and now. She just wanted to help Mrs. DaCosta feel less anguish.
When Raeni had attacked her, she’d dropped a toy on the tile floor. It was the small stuffed rabbit Llanzo had brought into the ER when Les first saw him. He’d likely been clutching it for comfort on the fatal return trip, and the medical team had to hand it to his mother so they could work over him.
