The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,65

and Sam. He was wrong about Hank being mad at him, or not worried. I add up every minute, hour, and day I spent with Sam, and it’s obvious that every one of them Hank spent thinking Sam was dead. I feel selfish, watching Hank try to come back from such a dark, dark place. I’m not sure I would ever stop crying if I were him.

“I had a feeling,” Jack says suddenly, watching me closely, “that there was someone like you out there with him.”

He hugs me.

“You were right,” I tell him. “Will Hank be okay?”

“Hank’s fine,” Jack says. “Or he will be.”

Jack has Sam’s eyes.

I’m so busy noticing Jack that I don’t realize Hank and Sam are no longer sitting on the floor until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Alyce, this is Hank,” Sam says. It seems impolite to stare at Hank’s tear-stained face and red, puffy cheeks. But he steps forward and hugs me, squishing the roses between us. He smells like miles and miles of mud-soaked road, mingled with sweat and a hint of lavender; beneath it all is the familiar musty smell of a boat. He gives me a squeeze, then steps back and says, “You’re a beautiful dancer. It almost killed me watching you.”

Even though I’m not sure I understand exactly what he means, I know it’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

Even after your heart breaks into a million pieces and your baby is gone, I am here to tell you—all around you the world will still go on spinning. People might even say kind words to you and think you are listening, but mostly you won’t hear anything because you’re too busy collecting each of those tiny pieces of your heart—wrapping them up into a safe corner of yourself, so you can find them again later.

You might only be able to nod at first, at the smiling faces that look familiar, and the mouths with the silent words trying to tell you something. It could be a while before you realize what they’re saying.

And then, on a morning like any other morning, you’ll start to wiggle your toes. Or feel the blood returning to the tips of your fingers. Slowly, like warmth after frost nip. All that new blood will seep back into those frozen spots until it reaches the secret place where you’ve hidden all the broken pieces—shards, really—and you start to move them around, maybe fit them back into place. Although you probably won’t get them exactly the way they were before, so it will feel funny at first and you might have to do it a few times.

Slowly, slowly, you’ll start to do normal things, like drink a cup of tea that will taste like tea again, instead of just brown water that someone has thrust into your hands for no reason. Things like taste and smell and touch—they’ll all come back, but slowly.

“It just takes time,” you’ll hear over and over again, once you can hear again.

When you do decide to speak, you limit yourself to asking only one question a day, at least in the beginning.

—

Day One:

“Was it a boy or a girl?”

“It was a beautiful, healthy little girl.” (Sister Bernadette)

—

Day Two:

“What did they name her?”

“You don’t remember? You asked that they name her after your gran. Marguerite.” (Sister Josephine)

—

Day Three:

“Why did I name her after my gran?” I really can’t remember.

“I think you were trying to wipe the slate clean—a new beginning.” (the abbess)

—

After two or three weeks, people will expect you to think about getting on with your life, especially Sister Agnes. Eventually you will say good-bye and push out through the abbey gates, trying not to hear the sniffling nuns behind you. You won’t be the same girl who walked up the steps of that exact same bus all those months ago even though you are wearing the same ratty red coat and carrying the same brown satchel. You’ll watch the world go quickly by, as if it’s a movie being played in reverse. The hours and then the days come and go before you barely even blink. You think maybe it’s been five days because Sister Agnes gave you enough sandwiches and scones for at least a week, and the last few have begun to taste old and dry, like sawdust. The only thing anchoring you to your seat is the embroidered pillow you found stuffed into your satchel, a gift from Sister Josephine and Sister Bernadette.