This Is Not How It Ends(23)

“Philip travels a lot, Charley. I know you’re happy. I know this works for you.” She stopped to take a breath. I watched her chest move up and down. Her skin was a dull gray. The lavender cap her friend had knit for her had slipped, and I glimpsed bare skin, her lively curls shorn by the powerful drugs. I was fixing the cap against her scalp when she finished her thought. “Don’t accept less than you deserve, Charlotte. Don’t let that fear you’ve locked in your heart keep you from something bigger . . .”

“We’re happy, Mom.” Tears misted my eyes. “Philip and I are good. I promise.”

She squeezed my hand.

The knocking continued.

Most days, I hadn’t bothered to dress or wash my hair. The doorbell would ring, and it was one of the nurses from hospice; other times it was a sympathetic friend brave enough to visit Mom and her withering frame. So when I swung the door open, a rush of crisp air jolted me awake. I’d been sleepwalking for weeks.

“Charley!”

I pulled the bathrobe tighter and stuck a greasy strand of hair behind my ear. I couldn’t recall the last time I bathed.

“Charley, what on earth?” Philip was pushing past me with a large crate in his hand. He dropped the container, and I sank into him, letting out a lengthy cry. The sobs were deep and animal-like. So much so, I hardly noticed the similar sounds coming from the crate. When I finally caught my breath, Philip dabbed at my face with his sleeve.

“Philip.” I pointed at the box. “What is that? And what are you doing here? I thought you were in San Francisco.” Or was it LA? I had a hard time keeping up.

“Aren’t you pleased to see me?” His tired eyes shifted. He’d probably spent the night on an airplane, though you couldn’t tell by his crisp suit. His formality soothed me. I’d grown accustomed to incessant wailing and whimpering. To hear language and complete sentences was finding a loaf of warm bread when you’ve been starving for weeks. I devoured it, and I devoured him, falling into his arms.

“I’m here, darling.” I let the last few weeks and months melt away. I didn’t want to remember my mother’s broken, emaciated body as I stuck a bedpan beneath her bottom. I didn’t want to hear her crying for her own mother in profound despair. The horror of imminent death.

When my legs gave out, Philip held me up. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m here, Charley.” His grip was extra tight.

“I want her to go,” I cried. “I can’t watch her suffering like this anymore.”

The minute the words slipped off my tongue, I felt the regret. As though a higher power would hear them and render a crueler punishment. But what was worse than this? “Is it wrong? Am I wrong?” My words were drowned in sobs. The thing in the crate was yelping in desperation.

I stepped back and opened the lid. A tiny golden-haired puppy leaped out, pinning me to the ground. He wriggled on top of me, licking my lips, tasting my tears. His breath smelled like his mother’s milk, and his tail wagged furiously back and forth. “Philip,” I began between sloppy kisses, “you’re crazy. There couldn’t be a worse time . . .”

“He’ll be good for you, Charley.”

The puppy’s innocence and joy depressed me, tearing at my defenses. “I can’t. Not now. I can barely take care of myself.”

Time. It was everywhere. The right time, the wrong time. I glanced back and forth at the adorable creature, one I’d craved since I was a young girl, but my father had forbidden it. His eyes latched on to mine, and I turned away.

“Please, Philip. You have to take him back.”

“I can’t do that, Charley. No refunds. Besides, you need each other.”

The puppy with the large tummy full of life was a sharp contrast to my mother’s withering body. He symbolized hope when there was very little left. Not in me, not in her. I couldn’t love this furry animal. There wasn’t enough room in my heart.

“Philip, I have to care for Mum.” He liked when I used his words. “I don’t have time to train a puppy. He’ll make a mess. I can’t even care for a plant.”

The doorbell chimed, and I knew at once it was the hospice nurse. They came around on shifts, with names like Martha and Janet and Cheryl. Robust names for women with considerable jobs. Martha smiled at Philip and found me on the floor by his feet. Her presence signified the end. No matter how many brochures I’d read, no matter how many social workers traipsed through our door and reassured me this wasn’t about dying, but quality of life, their presence was a flock of black birds surrounding their prey. Martha bent to greet the puppy, who excitedly jumped up to meet her. She knew before I did. They both did. And then it clicked. The puppy was a consolation prize. An exchange of sorts. One heartbeat for another. I instantly detested the dog and turned away. Martha sensed my annoyance and scooped him up in her plump arms, where he proceeded to lick her brown cheeks.

“He’ll never replace her, Philip.”

“Charley . . .”

I shook my head. “How could you think he could?”

“Charley, please, let me explain . . .”

My body was more alert than it had been in weeks. My cheeks blazed with heat. “You can’t expect this to be okay . . . You don’t understand . . .” The tears burned my eyes, and I tried to hold them back. “It’ll never be enough . . . Do you get that?” Pity washed over his entire face. “It’s not going to make it easier. It’ll only make it harder . . .”