Doctor Sleep (The Shining #2)(135)

“You’re not,” Dan said, “and we’ll take that into consideration. John, would you go down to the lobby and escort the Stones up when they arrive? I can start without you.”

“Are you sure—”

“Yes,” Dan said, holding his eyes. “I am.”

“She’s in Room Nine,” the head nurse said. “It’s the single at the end of the hall. If you need me, ring her call bell.”

4

Concetta’s name was on the Room 9 door, but the slot for medical orders was empty and the vitals monitor overhead showed nothing hopeful. Dan stepped into aromas he knew well: air freshener, antiseptic, and mortal illness. The last was a high smell that sang in his head like a violin that knows only one note. The walls were covered with photographs, many featuring Abra at various ages. One showed a gapemouthed cluster of little folks watching a magician pull a white rabbit from a hat. Dan was sure it had been taken at the famous birthday party, the Day of the Spoons.

Surrounded by these pictures, a skeleton woman slept with her mouth open and a pearl rosary twined in her fingers. Her remaining hair was so fine it almost disappeared against the pillow. Her skin, once olive-toned, was now yellow. The rise and fall of her thin bosom was hardly there. One look was enough to tell Dan that the head nurse had indeed known what the score was. If Azzie were here, he would have been curled up next to the woman in this room, waiting for Doctor Sleep to arrive so he could resume his late-night patrol of corridors empty save for the things only cats could see.

Dan sat down on the side of the bed, noting that the single IV going into her was a saline drip. There was only one medicine that could help her now, and the hospital pharmacy didn’t stock it. Her cannula had come askew. He straightened it. Then he took her hand and looked into the sleeping face.

(Concetta)

There was a slight hitch in her breathing.

(Concetta come back)

Beneath the thin, bruised lids, the eyes moved. She might have been listening; she might have been dreaming her last dreams. Of Italy, perhaps. Bending over the household well and hauling up a bucket of cool water. Bending over in the hot summer sun.

(Abra needs you to come back and so do I)

It was all he could do, and he wasn’t sure it would be enough until, slowly, her eyes opened. They were vacant at first, but they gained perception. Dan had seen this before. The miracle of returning consciousness. Not for the first time he wondered where it came from, and where it went when it departed. Death was no less a miracle than birth.

The hand he was holding tightened. The eyes remained on Dan’s, and Concetta smiled. It was a timid smile, but it was there.

“Oh mio caro! Sei tu? Sei tu? Come e possibile? Sei morto? Sono morta anch’io? . . . Siamo fantasmi?”

Dan didn’t speak Italian, and he didn’t have to. He heard what she was saying with perfect clarity in his head.

Oh my dear one, is it you? How can it be you? Are you dead? Am I?

Then, after a pause:

Are we ghosts?

Dan leaned toward her until his cheek lay against hers.

In her ear, he whispered.

In time, she whispered back.

5

Their conversation was short but illuminating. Concetta spoke mostly in Italian. At last she lifted a hand—it took great effort, but she managed—and caressed his stubbly cheek. She smiled.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Sì. Ready.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Sì, I know that. I’m so glad you come. Tell me again your name, signor.”

“Daniel Torrance.”

“Sì. You are a gift from God, Daniel Torrance. Sei un dono di Dio.”

Dan hoped it was true. “Will you give to me?”

“Sì, of course. What you need per Abra.”

“And I’ll give to you, Chetta. We’ll drink from the well together.”

She closed her eyes.

(I know)

“You’ll go to sleep, and when you wake up—”

(everything will be better)

The power was even stronger than it had been on the night Charlie Hayes passed; he could feel it between them as he gently clasped her hands in his and felt the smooth pebbles of her rosary against his palms. Somewhere, lights were being turned off, one by one. It was all right. In Italy a little girl in a brown dress and sandals was drawing water from the cool throat of a well. She looked like Abra, that little girl. The dog was barking. Il cane. Ginata. Il cane si rotolava sull’erba. Barking and rolling in the grass. Funny Ginata!

Concetta was sixteen and in love, or thirty and writing a poem at the kitchen table of a hot apartment in Queens while children shouted on the street below; she was sixty and standing in the rain and looking up at a hundred thousand lines of purest falling silver. She was her mother and her great-granddaughter and it was time for her great change, her great voyage. Ginata was rolling in the grass and the lights

(hurry up please)

were going out one by one. A door was opening

(hurry up please it’s time)

and beyond it they could both smell all the mysterious, fragrant respiration of the night. Above were all the stars that ever were.

He kissed her cool forehead. “Everything’s all right, cara. You only need to sleep. Sleep will make you better.”

Then he waited for her final breath.