Constance (Constance #1)(94)

“You’ll do fine. I’ll be in my office when you’re finished. We’ll talk then.”

Con turned the doorknob and opened the last door.

Inside was a small, dimly lit room—twin bed, dresser, two chairs. A rudimentary table sat beneath a window that, even though they were deep underground, had a panoramic view of the mountains. On the table was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle of Jimi Hendrix kneeling before his burning guitar.

On the bed, a man lay on his side with his back to her. Con covered her mouth with her hand in a timeless gesture of dread.

“What have you done?” she whispered through her fingers as the man rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. A choked moan escaped her, and then tears came like the sudden Texas storms that would roar out of the desert, sending families scrambling for high ground.

It was Zhi. Even though he had died more than a year ago, it was her Zhi.

He scratched his shaved head sleepily. His feet were bare. A loose white T-shirt couldn’t hide how thin he was. Hospital scrubs with an elastic waist hung low on his hips. He didn’t look surprised to see her, but when he smiled, it was only with half his face. The other side sagged like a sail that had lost the wind, the way her uncle Frank’s face had after his stroke.

“I was starting to worry that you weren’t coming back,” Zhi said, his voice strangely childlike.

“Of course I was,” she said. Zhi thought she was the original Con D’Arcy, and she played along, remembering what her aunt had said about not challenging his beliefs.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, nothing. I’m just happy to see you,” she said, stifling her tears and forcing a smile. The truth, of course, was infinitely more complex. This was all she had dreamed about for more than three years. So why did she feel so divided now?

She wanted to throw her arms around him but was afraid. Instead, she asked, “How are you?”

“Doc says I’m doing good. She won’t say when I can leave, but I can tell I’m getting close. Asked if maybe I could take a walk on the grounds soon, but she says I have to work harder at my physical therapy. Man, I hate it, though.”

She realized Zhi thought he had survived the accident. He didn’t know he was a clone at all. “Me too,” Con said, beating back her tears again.

“How’s your knee?” he asked.

“Better,” she said. “Much better.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Con said, on alert.

“I changed the music,” he said and looked down at the floor, ashamed.

It took Con a moment to orient to what he was trying to tell her. “What music?”

Zhi seemed to lose his train of thought and reached for a walker. It was only when he dragged himself into a standing position that Con saw how truly damaged he was. She watched him wheel himself over to the table, right leg moving only haltingly while his right hand fumbled to keep a grip on the handlebar of the walker. She knew he meant the crash and fought back the urge to press him to remember. When you carried an unanswered question for long enough, at some point, a hint of the truth wasn’t enough. She needed to hear him say it, but at the same time, what did she hope to get out of it? Was that how she wanted to spend this time with him?

“Did you see the puzzle? I’m almost done.” He rolled over to the table and eased himself slowly into a chair.

“Yeah, it’s coming along great,” she agreed.

“You used to shred ‘Voodoo Chile.’ Man, I loved playing with you so much.” He smiled his half smile.

“Me too,” she said softly.

All the talk seemed to have worn him out, and Zhi barely spoke again. She’d never known him to sit still for so long. He’d always been pure kinetic energy, leaping from one project to the next to the next, but they sat at the table for more than an hour while he worked patiently on his puzzle. When he found a piece that fit, he let out a little whoop of joy and smiled brokenly at Con. Watching him, there were moments when she saw the old Zhi—sharp, proud, intense. But they were fleeting glimpses of the sun, and just as quickly, the clouds rolled back, dulling his eyes as he worked diligently on his puzzle. This wasn’t Zhi, she thought, knowing how uncharitable and hypocritical that made her. But then he saw where another piece fit, and Zhi would emerge again just long enough to make her question herself. Eventually, Zhi said he needed to rest. He wheeled himself back to bed and lay down in a series of methodical, old-man steps. Con saw him shivering and covered him with a blanket.

“Will you play for me? Doc gave me that guitar, but I can’t anymore,” he said, showing her his atrophied right hand.

Con brought the guitar over to the bed and tuned up as best she could. Her hands were having their own difficulties. When things sounded decent, she still hadn’t settled on what to play. How ironic was that? Her thoughts went back to that first night in college when they’d sat up all night trading songs and passing a different guitar back and forth. She knew every song he’d played and every song she’d played for him. Both trying to impress the other with their knowledge and taste—the good-natured competitiveness that had marked their relationship. She remembered the song he’d sung when she caught herself falling in love with him.

She sat on the edge of the bed and played it for him now. An old Big Star track called “Thirteen.” It was a simple, hopeful little tune about young love. Zhi recognized it and mouthed the words silently as she sang. She thought about their life together. The life that was and the one that might have been. It was a familiar, well-traveled rabbit hole. There’d been a time that she’d taken comfort in the pain to be found there. She didn’t feel that way anymore. Now she just felt glad that she had known him and that he’d been in her life.