But without her here, I can’t, can I? So . . . so I’m just going to lie down until she gets back.”
He turned to move, but I put a hand on his walker. “You’re joking, right? You already had a nap today.”
He closed his eyes, meditating. When he reopened them, he said, “Just until she gets back. She must’ve . . . needed a little walk. Some fresh air.”
I held fast to his walker. First I’d lied to him about Josie, and now he was lying to himself. Damn girl had caused an epidemic. But it seemed fixable, if only we dealt in reality going forward. I said, “And what if she doesn’t ever come back?”
“Then I’m not getting up,” he said, his voice resonating. We shared a long minute of silence, and, during it, Luann passed by with a bathing kit and disappeared into Wayne Tisdale’s room. Anderson soon followed, acting like he didn’t see us.
“Carl,” I said once Wayne’s door had shut, “it’s been a day, I’ll give you that, but we aren’t the kind to just lie down and die.”
“Maybe you aren’t.”
“We aren’t. We’ve talked about this. Carpe diem, etcetera, etcetera.”
“What am I supposed to carpe, exactly?”
“This.” I swung my finger around like a whirlybird. “You know what happens if you start lying all day in your bed. You might as well get on the bus to Simmons.”
“Maybe that’s where I belong.”
My blood ran cold at his sincerity. In the crisp, clear second that followed, I realized Carl would much rather starve himself than shoot himself, and Simmons was the one place that would allow him to do it.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I said finally.
“Duffy, look at me.”
I gave him a sideways glance, hoping to touch him up like you would a bad photograph, but there was still too much fidelity. What I’d seen in his hand was everywhere now—in his hunchback, his bald crown, his cataracts. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t dying. You could even see it as he turned his back and hobbled into our room.
“Carl,” I called after him.
The bedroom door slammed shut.
I swallowed and glanced around, feeling like he’d abandoned me in our foxhole. Same as all my other comrades in arms. Nora had left her station. Luann and Anderson were busy sponging Wayne down. Shawn had Name That Tune underway in the atrium. It was also Saturday, meaning that the receptionist was gone, along with the custodian.
I stood in that empty hall with the slow realization of how very alone I was, and it frightened me. Centennial didn’t hand out many moments like this, if ever, and in ancient times—before I started wearing Velcro shoes—this sort of solitude would’ve gotten me in trouble. When left unsupervised, I tended to seize the day in all the wrong ways. And that predisposition was still in my blood, because in the vacuum of this space all I could think about was taking it upon myself to fetch Josie. Which meant going to Hang Overs, the closest bar.
Sure, I understood for my part, entering that sort of venue was like playing with a dead snake that could still bite. And, yes, I recognized Sharon required us to stay put or stay at Simmons. But I’d once been sly, quick, and careful, and though that was eons ago, in my mind nothing had changed.
I tottered down the hall, peeked around the corner. Charles was parked next to the plaid living room couch, asleep. Ragtime blues filtered out of the atrium, along with voices jockeying for the win.
After checking over my shoulder, I snuck into the foyer and stood on top of the pad that magically opened the front doors. The ease of it felt like a go-ahead. A breeze rustled my thin hair; the sun warmed my face. I closed my eyes to it and let the last of my misgivings melt off until there was nothing left but a why-not-go-ahead-and-jump tickle in my toes.
There you go, skydiving again, I thought. Then with a little smile on my lips, I took a step, then a