Lock Every Door(92)

Give up.

Succumb.

No more pain. No more problems. No more worry and heartache and constant wondering about Jane’s fate. Just a deep, painless slumber in which my family waits for me.

I turn to their photo on the bedside table, their faces crisscrossed by cracks in the glass.

Shattered frame. Shattered family.

I look at them and know which choice to make.

I grab the paper cup and tip it back.





FOUR DAYS LATER





48


They keep the door closed. It’s also locked from the outside. During my rare bouts of wakefulness, I hear the click of the lock before anyone enters. Which is often. People are always coming and going. A veritable parade stomping through my drug-induced slumber.

First up is Dr. Wagner, who checks my vitals and gives me my pills and a breakfast smoothie. I dutifully put the pills in my mouth. I don’t touch the smoothie.

Next are Jeannette and Bernard, who wake me with their chatter while they change my bandages, replace the catheter, swap out the IV bag. From their conversation, I gather that this is a small operation. Just the two of them, Nick, Dr. Wagner, and a night nurse who’s in big trouble after I managed to slip out unnoticed.

There are apparently three patient rooms, all of them currently occupied—a rarity, to hear Jeannette tell it. I’m in one. Greta’s in another. The third is occupied by Mr. Leonard, who only days ago received a new heart.

Although they never mention Dylan by name, I know where that heart came from. Just thinking about it beating inside frail and ancient Mr. Leonard’s stitched-up chest makes me shove a fist in my mouth to keep from screaming.

When I do eventually fall asleep again, it’s with tears in my eyes.

They’re still there when I’m startled awake I-don’t-know-how-many hours later by Greta Manville. The door unlocks, and there she is, no longer in a wheelchair but moving around with the help of a walker. She looks healthier than the last time I saw her. Not as pale, and more robust.

“I wanted to see how you’re doing,” she says.

Even though I’m half-comatose from the little white pills, enough anger courses through me to produce two words.

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” Greta says. “What my entire family has done, starting with my grandmother. I know you know about that, by the way. You’re smart enough to have figured it out by now. Then my parents. Kidney disease runs in the family. Both of my parents needed transplants. So when I needed one as well, I returned to this place, knowing its purpose. And its sins. You judge me harshly, I know. I deserve to be judged. Just as I deserve your hatred and your desire to see me dead.”

The fog parts. A rare moment of clarity, fueled by anger and hatred. Greta is right about that.

“I want you to live as long as possible,” I say. “Years and years. Because each day you’re alive means one more day you have to think about what you’ve done. And when the rest of your body starts to fail you—and it will, very soon—I hope that small piece of me that’s inside you keeps you alive just a little bit longer. Because death isn’t good enough for you.”

I’m spent after that, sinking into the mattress like it’s quicksand. Greta remains by the bed.

“Go away,” I moan.

“Not yet. There’s a reason I’m here,” she says. “I’m being released to my apartment tomorrow. It’ll be more comfortable for me there. Dr. Nick says being in my own place will speed up my recovery. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Why?”

Greta shuffles to the door. Before closing it behind her, she takes one last look at me and says, “I think you already know the answer.”

And I do, in a hazy, half-conscious way. Her departure means there’ll be room for someone else.

Maybe Marianne Duncan.

Maybe Charlie’s daughter.

Which means I won’t be here by this time tomorrow.





49


I sleep.

I wake.

Bernard—he of the bright scrubs and no-longer-kind eyes—arrives with lunch and more pills. Because I’m too dazed to eat, he uses pillows to prop me up like a rag doll and spoon feeds me soup, rice pudding, and what I think is creamed spinach.

The drugs have made me oddly chatty. “Where are you from?” I say, slurring my words like someone who’s had one too many drinks.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“I know I don’t need to. I want to.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” he says.

“At least tell me who you’re doing this for.”

“You need to stop talking.”

Bernard shovels more pudding into my mouth, hoping it will shut me up. It does only for as long as it takes me to swallow.

“You’re doing it for someone,” I say. “That’s why you’re here and not at, like, a regular hospital, right? They promised to help someone you love if you work for them? Like Charlie’s doing?”

I’m given another mouthful of pudding. Rather than swallow, I let it drip from my lips, talking all the while.

“You can tell me,” I say. “I won’t judge you. When my mother was dying, I would have done anything to save her life. Anything.”