Are hushed. Their gray trunks leaning toward the sagging cabin in stiff warning. The afternoon sun so bright it cuts my eyes and turns Eve’s cheeks raw. Thirty minutes later we jump out of the shuttle and make our way up the front path. Behind us we hear the bus’s wheels grinding the gravel as it turns and then speeds away. I grab Eve’s limp hand. She wiggles it free. We stand at the slightly open door listening. Listening.
“Go in.” I whisper.
“Stay here.” She says.
But I follow her through the door.
Inside the light hits the stale air. I watch thousands of delicate dust particles float to the floor.
“She’s not in her room.” Eve gasps as she looks around.
“She left us?” I say.
“KEDA! She’s here!” Eve yells at me through my panic.
In the coat closet. On top of all our shoes. We find Mama. Her lips bluing. She is slumped into the dark corner. Cedar smell. Dust dust dust falling onto her messy braid. Her hands tangled in her knitting.
“Pills. A bunch of pills. Aspirin. Vicodin. Xanax. I dunno! Pills. Wine.” I hear Eve on the cabin phone with 911.
And then Mama mumbles: “Sorry. I tried.”
And all I can think is: Stay. Stay. Don’t leave me. But I am afraid to go to her. To move. So instead I give her a big frozen smile and stand like this until the ambulance comes.