Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(41)

“Is she asleep?” I ask.

John shrugs as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. Maybe it does. “It’s off and on. Her mother is in there with her now, and it’s quiet, so probably.”

I nod. Maggie’s dad focuses, and he finally notices the wrapped package in my arms. Sorrow also notices. “What’s that?” John asks lifelessly. I look down at it.

“Something I made for Maggie.”

He tries to smile again, fails. Sorrow is unrelenting. “Why don’t you just go in? You can wait by her bed. She’ll be so surprised when she wakes up and you’re there.”

I glance at the door. “Are you sure?” John waves me in, and I walk past him. The air in Maggie’s room is warmer, still dark. Slumped in the chair by the bed, Maggie’s mom startles when she sees me, then relaxes.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” she sighs. She’s in no better condition than John. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Elizabeth?” Maggie’s voice is a rasp, a croak, really. It sounds like it hurts just to say my name. I approach the bed, clenching the package close to me as if it’s a defense against her. Realizing this, I release my grip.

“Hi.”

Silently, Maggie’s mom gets up from her chair and leaves us. She gently touches my arm as she passes. I stand there over my best friend. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she struggles to breathe. She manages to smile up at me, something neither of her parents was able to do. I don’t know this person. She’s just a shriveled, waning thing lying in that bed. There’s no expression, no light, just bones and skin and organs that are fast losing their purpose. How odd, for something to lose its purpose.

I sit down in the chair by her bed, making my expression serene. “I brought you something,” I tell her. I watch Maggie’s eyes go to the square package in my arms, see the question in them. I scoot closer and unwrap it quickly. She takes in the painting I’ve done for her, and suddenly Emotions surround the bed. Joy, Sorrow, Anger, Confusion. None of them address me, since it’s Maggie that takes up the whole of their attention. She seems to love the painting, but I’d guess she’s also thinking that it’s the last one of mine she will ever see. She looks glad that I’ve come, but she’s also probably wondering why this had to happen to her.

“Since you can’t go to the ocean,” I say softly, “I thought I would bring it to you.”

She’s still smiling so softly, and a bubble of spit appears at the corner of her mouth. I reach out and wipe it away, and she moves her fingers a bit. They’re limp in her lap, and, focusing on our hands, I reach down and lace them together.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Maggie whispers. Raw.

I look at her face again, and she’s studying our hands, too. “You’re welcome.”

Maggie lifts her gaze to meet mine. Suddenly she coughs, and her body racks. “Hurts … ” she rasps. My grip tightens, as if I hold on tight enough she won’t drift away in this current, as if I hold on tight enough she won’t hurt so much.

Courage appears at my side, among the rest of the watching Emotions. Though he’s not as handsome as most of them, he’s more ethereal in appearance. He looks at me. “You’ve done well with this human,” he says. His voice is gravelly and smooth at the same time, ancient in its wisdom and kindness.

“I haven’t done anything,” I say to him without thinking.

“Who are you talking to?” Maggie follows my gaze.

I focus on her quickly. “Oh, just … talking to myself. Sorry.”

“You’ve always been so different from everyone else,” she mumbles with another half-smile.

I lean closer to hear better, still pretending. “And yet you stuck with me. I may be different, but I think you might be a little crazy.” My tone is teasing.

My friend tries to laugh, but the sound breaks off into more vicious coughing. I can only watch. My nothingness is as strong as ever, but I sense it hardening, slamming more bricks into the wall.

“It’s a little cliché, isn’t it?” Maggie wheezes. “The dramatic last speech, the cancer. I don’t want to be a cliché.”

Even now, I feel nothing. It shouldn’t be unexpected, but still, it seems … wrong. I should be able to mourn my only friend. The hooded stranger seemed to say that the power on me would eventually fade. Wouldn’t now be a good time? Isn’t grief one of the strongest Emotions, overwhelming enough to shatter the hardest of hearts?

Disregarding the question for now, I touch Maggie’s cheek and slowly shake my head. “You could never be a cliché.”

She just tosses her own head restlessly—the movement costs her, and she winces—and I stand to set the painting on a ledge by her bed, where she can see it anytime she wants. I’m careful to keep my face away from the light; I worked on the painting all night up in the loft, and it would be unfortunate if Maggie notices the smudges under my eyes. I sit back down. The chair creaks. I hold Maggie’s hand again and she squeezes weakly.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks. I nod. Her lips tremble, and she abruptly changes the subject. “You don’t show it all the time, but I know you care. That’s what kept me going, sometimes. When you weren’t around … when I didn’t hear from you … I knew it was just because it’s hard. It can’t be easy s-seeing me like this.” She swallows painfully, closing her eyes for a moment.