The Winter Sister(87)

“She didn’t . . .” I started to say.

Mom looked up at me, her eyes almost hopeful, as if she expected me to continue the sentence with something that would ease her guilt and pain. But instead, I said something terrible, something true, and a part of me—so removed from the part whose instinct was to protect her—hoped it would shatter her into shards.

“She didn’t know you loved her.”





27




I was counting the tiles on the floor of Mom’s treatment room, and every time I got to ten, I looked toward the door, searching for Ben. I kept expecting every nurse that walked by to be him, but so far, he hadn’t appeared. Eight and nine and ten—and it wasn’t his tall frame filling up the doorway, wasn’t his scar on the cheeks of the faces that passed. Eight and nine and ten—and the hours moved along, slow as the drugs that dripped into Mom’s bloodstream. Three and four and five—and I glanced at Mom, saw her squeezed-shut eyes wringing out the light.

She hadn’t spoken to me at all that morning, but I kept looking at her in her chair, her head tipped back, her lips dry and slightly parted. I even opened my mouth a couple times to apologize for what I’d said the night before, but then I clamped my teeth together, recalling all her secrets and everything they’d done.

I had to see Ben. Eight and nine and ten. He needed to know who Persephone was to him. I’d barely slept all night, filled with the urgency to tell him, to rewrite a history already dictated by pain. He would lose her all over again—lose whatever sacredness still colored his memories of their relationship—but he had to. He had to know. Eight and nine and—

My cell phone vibrated with a call, and for a second, I assumed that it was him. It was Lauren, though, and I shook my head, remembering that I’d never even given Ben my number.

I glanced at Mom, snoring gently beside me now. Then I looked back at my phone and sent the call to voicemail. I knew I needed to talk to her—I owed my best friend that much—and after my conversation with Ben the night before, I thought I might even be able to. But Mom’s treatment room, the hospital itself, wasn’t the place, and right then, I had only enough energy to devote myself to one difficult task.

I stood up and walked out of the room. I didn’t see any nurses in the reception area, so I approached a woman at the front desk and waited as she wrapped up a conversation on the phone.

“Thanks for your patience,” she said a minute later. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Ben Emory.”

“Hey.”

A rush of warmth shot across my chest at the sound of his voice behind me. He’d startled me, I told myself—that’s all it was—but when I turned and saw he was already smiling at me, my sternum felt lit up from inside. I raised my hand to my chest, trying to rub away the sensation.

“I found him,” I said over my shoulder to the receptionist.

I heard her chuckle and then Ben’s fingers wrapped around mine, tugging me away.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said after we’d taken a few steps. He let go of my hand, the smile still stretched out on his face. “I was actually going to call you tonight, but then I realized I don’t have your number.”

Part of me wanted to laugh, having had the same realization only minutes ago—but the other part, which had no patience for bones that felt lit up inside, got right to the point.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“Okay.” Ben nodded. “Go ahead.”

“No, I—” I looked around. “Not here. Can we get together after you get off of work?”

“Oh, sure. Of course. And actually—the reason I was going to call you is because I want to show you something.”

I winced. “I don’t think I can handle any more letters.”

“No,” Ben said, smiling again. “This is a good thing, I promise. Do you want to come over tonight? I’m done here at six.”

Was it the light in the room or were his eyes just a simple shade of brown? I’d looked right into them several times over the last week, but in that moment, I couldn’t see them as the impossibly black color they’d always been.

“Yeah.” I swallowed down the thought. “That sounds good.”

“Great,” Ben said. “I can even whip something up for us, if you’d like. I can’t promise it’ll be better than frozen pizza, but—”

“No,” I cut in. “That’s okay. I’ll just eat before I come.”

His expression slackened, as if disappointed, but I couldn’t let him plan a meal for us, imagining it as some sort of date, only for me to show up and destroy him. It would be too cruel—and after everything that had happened, everything I’d learned, I knew now that cruelty was not a thing Ben deserved.

“Okay,” he said. “Well, just come when you can, then.”

“Okay,” I agreed, and I spun around before I could see him walk away. Heading back toward Mom’s room, I felt stiff and heavy with dread. After tonight, Ben would never remember Persephone the same way again, and it wasn’t fair that the messenger had to be me. He should have always known. We all should have.

When I walked back into the treatment room, Mom’s eyes were open. She stared at me as I took my seat beside her.