She was sitting up when he arrived.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Come here,” she said weakly, patting the edge of the bed. “Come over here.”
He sat down on the hard mattress and she put her arms around him. She could not have lost much muscle in three days, but her arms felt thin. She smelled faintly of body odor, and strongly of soap and disinfectant. When she did not release him after several moments, Will put his arms around her. Then leaned into her as she rested her head on his shoulder.
“My boy,” she murmured.
“That’s me.”
“Is this what I have to do?” she asked, though he could hear the smile in her voice. “Fall and break my head?”
“Arm or leg would have been fine,” Will replied. “I would have come for that.”
“Yeah, I always overdo it.”
There was a vague slur to some words, but mostly she sounded tired. A coma was not as restful as it seemed, apparently. She finally released him and sank back onto the stacked pillows.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Me?” he laughed. “You should talk.”
“I have a reason.”
“Well, I’ve been a little stressed the last few days. Slept better last night,” he lied. His poor sleep had nothing to do with her. He was, however, hoping to avoid another encounter with Samantha.
“Tell me what I missed,” Abby said.
“The last three days? Not a hell of a lot.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He filled her in on what the doctor had said. Then gave brief and sanitized accounts of the phone call with his father, his doings with Muriel, Samantha, Jimmy Duffy, Margaret Price. All of their fond regards.
“Sam came by today,” she said, an uncertain look on her face. “She was sweet.”
“She’s been by every day,” Will reported.
“Poor girl. Still acts like she’s twelve years old.”
“That’s just her manner,” he said, unable to stop himself. He had no real desire to defend Sam. Was it merely the need to contradict his mother reasserting itself so quickly? “She’s been through a lot.”
She gazed at him steadily.
“You been seeing much of her?”
“Some,” he admitted. “She’s been helping me out.”
“She was so crazy about you,” Abby said fondly. “You were her pet. And her best friend, and the little brother she never had.”
“And she was the scary sister I never wanted,” Will replied, desperate to get off the topic. “What did the doctor say this morning?”
“They’ll test my reflexes and stuff this afternoon. Again.” She closed her eyes, the very prospect of more tests making her weary. “See if I need therapy before I go home.”
“Have you walked?”
“To the bathroom and back. I need to get a little steadier before they let me out.”
“So, another few days?”
She gave him that level gaze again. This calm, sane-seeming version of his mother was almost unnerving.
“I’m keeping you from your work, honey.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t think about that,” he insisted, with the vehemence of a guilty conscience. “This is where I need to be.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. We can... Hey, how is Muriel? Has she been by, I don’t remember?”
“She’s with her mother,” Will replied, taking her hand.
“Her mother, oh...the Alzheimer’s is worse?”
“I guess. Also, she’s a little nervous about seeing you.”
Her expression was as puzzled as he had expected it would be.
“You and she were arguing when you fell,” Will explained.
“Right,” Abby said, some hazy recollection fighting its way through. “She was there. Oh God, poor Mure.” Like everyone in these parts, she said it with a flat u, like burr. The local accent always clanged in Will’s ears after he’d been away for a while.
“She’s kind of twisted up about it.”
“I’ve been having dreams,” she whispered. “These awful dreams.”
“You mean while you were under?”
“Then too. But before, the last few weeks. From when you were a kid. I’ve been dreaming of the night Johnny died.”
John Payson was a blue-eyed, blond-haired, ne’er-do-well son of one of the old families. Everyone loved Johnny, all the grown-ups. Will was five when he died and could not remember him clearly. What he recalled was a big, hairy, loud man he had not liked very much. Johnny had been Abby’s off-and-on boyfriend, and a member of the spirit circle. And he had been fried to death by lightning at the top of the stairs. Twenty feet from Will’s bedroom door.
“Maybe you shouldn’t think of that stuff right now,” he suggested.
“You don’t get to choose what you dream, honey,” she answered. “But you’re right. Because they’re so real, I keep thinking of them when I’m awake. I keep remembering stuff I don’t want to.”
Sadness welled up in her eyes and she closed them. This could not be good for her, but how did he make her stop? He took both of her hands in his own. Still cool, but he could feel the life in them now.
“Is Joe here,” she asked. “Is he coming?”
“No,” Will replied.
“Figures.”
“I told him not to. I kind of insisted, actually.”
“Don’t hate him, Willie.”
“I don’t,” he assured her.
“He didn’t do anything wrong. Me, now. I’ve done everything wrong.”
“Stop it. No more of this.”
“I want to talk,” Abigail said.
“Not today. Let it go for a while.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him again.
“Please tell Muriel it’s okay. I’m not mad. Tell her to come see me.”
“I’ll do that,” he promised.
Last day of September. The anniversary of Christine Jordan’s death, but he had chosen not to think about that. The morning had been chilly, but the afternoon was clear and blue and warm. Late-day sun turned the backyard grass a glowing emerald. Will walked barefoot in that cool grass, sipping a beer. As content and relaxed as he had been in many days, weeks maybe. He had shopped for groceries at Shaw’s and seen no one he knew. Then to the farm to buy early apples and cider. There had been no evil dreams for two nights. The beer was the first he’d had since that night at Sam’s, and he drank it for pleasure, not medication. Tomorrow was October 1. The witching month, and his mother was coming home.
He gazed at the strip of white impatiens, dividing the lawn from a small rose garden. Three of the rose plants were dead, but four others were still blooming, a yellow and three reds. He would buy her new ones to replace the casualties. Or did you wait for spring to plant roses? Somewhere under those healthy plants were the ashes of Arthur the cat, friend of his youth. A small stone with an A on it used to mark the spot, but it had disappeared over the years. Will looked down the street to Muriel’s house, but her driveway was still empty. He had thought she might be back by now. Across the field and through the pines he could see lights on at the Hall place, but he was continuing to keep his distance from Sam.
The sun disappeared behind the oaks, a chill came into the air and Will went inside. It was cooling off in the house also, and he traversed the shadowy rooms of the first floor lowering windows. Returning to the kitchen, he flicked on the overhead—only one bulb working—and considered dinner. The refrigerator and shelves were full, to meet any possible food whim of his mother’s, but he wasn’t that hungry. Maybe soup. He stood by the sink, finishing his beer. Sniffing the grassy scent through the window and watching the impatiens acquire that bluish glow they got at dusk. Brightening as everything around darkened. The phenomenon lasted only a few minutes until the white flowers faded as well. A shiver passed through him. Will set down the beer and reached across the sink to close the window.
Bathed in milky light, the room behind was reflected in the wavy glass of the window. Dim and distorted. The four glass-fronted cabinets. The array of steel and ceramic pots and pans on the far wall. The rusting kettle on top of the ancient gas stove. The white refrigerator. The figure in the dining room doorway. Slender, with brown hair to her shoulders, and a white T-shirt stained red in front.
Will?
The voice was hoarse. Strained but recognizable. Her nose had been crushed by the dashboard and her neck had snapped. Who had told him that?
Will?
Scared, pleading. She did not know where she was or what had happened. She wanted him to explain, to comfort her. He had no comfort. He shivered again and closed his eyes. There was a slow, unsteady shuffling of feet across the linoleum, approaching him. Her legs had been broken in multiple places. How did he know that? Who would have been cruel enough to tell him details like these? And yet stories circulated after traumatic deaths. In small towns. Rumors, gossip, truth and invention hopelessly mixed.
Will?
The nerve endings in his neck and back began to ache, awaiting her touch. She must be right there behind him. Arm outstretched. Small, cold hand, bloody fingers about to brush his skin. He listened for her breath, but his own blood roaring in his ears drowned out everything. Her coffin had been closed. He had not been able to see her a last time. Not that it would have been her, just an abandoned husk. Why should he not look now? How could it be worse than what his imagination had created and recreated over sixteen years? She needed him. Didn’t he hear the pleading in her voice? Where was his courage?
Will opened his eyes and turned around.
She took a long time to answer the door. When she did, she said nothing, just looked at him. Looked long and carefully at his face. He could only guess what she saw there. Will could summon no words, but it didn’t matter. She did not need to be told.
“Come in,” Samantha said at last, stepping out of the way.
Will didn’t move. Just swayed in place, three or four feet from the open door. Some instinct had propelled him to this spot, but now his momentum failed.
“I need to understand what’s happening to me,” he said at last.
“I know,” she replied, reversing her motion and stepping onto the porch. She took both of his hands in hers and drew him to her. “Come inside now.”