sorry she was, louder than Mémé’s tears, and louder than the awful, quitting sounds coming from Mémé’s mouth.
Friar stood and whined, as he paced back and forth at Luessy’s bedside. He trotted to the foot of the bed, and despite Mother Moses, jumped up. On his belly, his tail dragging behind him, he used his forelegs and pulled himself over the crocheting to Luessy. He dropped his head on the rise of her stomach and lay still, staring off into the room.
The weight of her grandmother’s body leaned against her, but Willow knew Mémé had left her.
12
The bed trembled. Willow shook so hard her legs kicked in tiny jerks. She’d never lain beside a dead person. She didn’t know what she should do. She knew you weren’t supposed to disturb the dead. Would sliding away, if she didn’t hardly move the blankets one inch, be disturbing the dead?
Lying beside Mémé, without a clock in the room and no moon or stars sliding across the windows to prove the passage of time, she felt like she was in a strange world where time didn’t exist at all, where being rescued might never happen. She shut her eyes tight but was afraid to scream. She wanted Tory to hear from down the long hallway and through her closed door, but even the thought of screaming added to Willow’s fear. What if she screamed, scaring herself more, and still Tory didn’t come?
She cried for Papa to come and for Mémé to stop being dead, and for her own shaking, so hard her knees bounced together, to stop.
I sat beside her, tried to sooth her, until finally her body gave into exhaustion, and she sank into a fitful sleep. She dreamed she ran through a forest of thick black trees, and no matter how loud she screamed, no one came to help. She dreamed she stood on the steps of Our Lady of Supplication, a black chain binding her to Sister Dominic Agnes, and Mémé, her cat-head cane tapping, walked by and away, never turning to see Willow.
She woke having to go to the bathroom, and her head pounded and buzzed as though filled with a hive of Jonah’s bees, angry bees. She couldn’t see Mémé’s face without turning, which she wouldn’t do, but Friar was still with her, and so she wasn’t alone.
She rolled away. Mémé’s body shifted. Standing at the far side of the bed, panting with fear at how Mémé had moved, Willow thought even of crawling back in. Mémé couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be. But her skin had changed to the wrong color, as had her lips, and her eyes looked too deep, poked in. Only her hand on the spread looked right, though the ribbon had dropped onto her chest. Willow hurried around, picked up the piece of sky, and because Mémé couldn’t hold it, Willow wove it through her grandmother’s cold fingers.
Mémé had sky again, and Willow rushed across the carpet and over the last few feet of wood flooring and into the hall. Friar watched, his head not lifting from Luessy. “Come,” Willow whispered. He didn’t stir. “Come Friar, you have to come.” The urine on Willow’s dress had dried and smelled worse now. “Come,” she begged. “Please come with me.”
The blessed dog rose, stepped off the bed, and with his tail hanging went to Willow and let her press her face into the ruff of his neck and hold onto him.
In the bathroom at the near end of the hall, away from Tory’s bath at the far end, Friar kept close to Willow. She sat on the toilet wondering how it was possible that everything looked the same. White towels were still folded and stacked on their white shelves. The bathtub still sat with its claw feet pointed straight ahead, as though it might get up and run. The black and white floor tiles still ran in straight lines. Standing naked and washing her legs, her clothes rolled into a ball that she would hide under her bed, she could see that even her back was the same. She told herself Mémé was there, too, watching her wash, reminding her to hang up her washcloth, and waiting while she put on clean
Friar stood and whined, as he paced back and forth at Luessy’s bedside. He trotted to the foot of the bed, and despite Mother Moses, jumped up. On his belly, his tail dragging behind him, he used his forelegs and pulled himself over the crocheting to Luessy. He dropped his head on the rise of her stomach and lay still, staring off into the room.
The weight of her grandmother’s body leaned against her, but Willow knew Mémé had left her.
12
The bed trembled. Willow shook so hard her legs kicked in tiny jerks. She’d never lain beside a dead person. She didn’t know what she should do. She knew you weren’t supposed to disturb the dead. Would sliding away, if she didn’t hardly move the blankets one inch, be disturbing the dead?
Lying beside Mémé, without a clock in the room and no moon or stars sliding across the windows to prove the passage of time, she felt like she was in a strange world where time didn’t exist at all, where being rescued might never happen. She shut her eyes tight but was afraid to scream. She wanted Tory to hear from down the long hallway and through her closed door, but even the thought of screaming added to Willow’s fear. What if she screamed, scaring herself more, and still Tory didn’t come?
She cried for Papa to come and for Mémé to stop being dead, and for her own shaking, so hard her knees bounced together, to stop.
I sat beside her, tried to sooth her, until finally her body gave into exhaustion, and she sank into a fitful sleep. She dreamed she ran through a forest of thick black trees, and no matter how loud she screamed, no one came to help. She dreamed she stood on the steps of Our Lady of Supplication, a black chain binding her to Sister Dominic Agnes, and Mémé, her cat-head cane tapping, walked by and away, never turning to see Willow.
She woke having to go to the bathroom, and her head pounded and buzzed as though filled with a hive of Jonah’s bees, angry bees. She couldn’t see Mémé’s face without turning, which she wouldn’t do, but Friar was still with her, and so she wasn’t alone.
She rolled away. Mémé’s body shifted. Standing at the far side of the bed, panting with fear at how Mémé had moved, Willow thought even of crawling back in. Mémé couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be. But her skin had changed to the wrong color, as had her lips, and her eyes looked too deep, poked in. Only her hand on the spread looked right, though the ribbon had dropped onto her chest. Willow hurried around, picked up the piece of sky, and because Mémé couldn’t hold it, Willow wove it through her grandmother’s cold fingers.
Mémé had sky again, and Willow rushed across the carpet and over the last few feet of wood flooring and into the hall. Friar watched, his head not lifting from Luessy. “Come,” Willow whispered. He didn’t stir. “Come Friar, you have to come.” The urine on Willow’s dress had dried and smelled worse now. “Come,” she begged. “Please come with me.”
The blessed dog rose, stepped off the bed, and with his tail hanging went to Willow and let her press her face into the ruff of his neck and hold onto him.
In the bathroom at the near end of the hall, away from Tory’s bath at the far end, Friar kept close to Willow. She sat on the toilet wondering how it was possible that everything looked the same. White towels were still folded and stacked on their white shelves. The bathtub still sat with its claw feet pointed straight ahead, as though it might get up and run. The black and white floor tiles still ran in straight lines. Standing naked and washing her legs, her clothes rolled into a ball that she would hide under her bed, she could see that even her back was the same. She told herself Mémé was there, too, watching her wash, reminding her to hang up her washcloth, and waiting while she put on clean
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