was going to return to battle with Belinda. I was going to rent my own apartment and lock myself inside with my books. I was going to work hard at the hospital—but now I can’t help but stop myself.
Why would I be working hard? And for what? For Gram? That isn’t enough of a reason. Life isn’t supposed to be hard. Fuck that. Gram’s wrong. I’ll end up like Uncle Pat, sitting like a Popsicle on the edge of a folding chair, feeling nothing. And Gram wouldn’t want that. I picture Weber’s face, bright with happiness. The three birds tumble, one after another, past the closed windows of the apartment building. A man shouts into a cell phone a few feet away from me. He is telling someone that he’s all right. I know, with total conviction, that I want to feel what Weber was feeling while he fought the fire.
“Why are you breathing like that? Lila? Slow down,” Weber says. “This air is no good for you.”
My mind is spinning from point to point, truth to truth. I have not been wrong all my life; I haven’t been weak. I don’t love medicine the way Weber loves his work. And I should, if I’m going to keep on doing it. I don’t know what would make me light up the way he is lit up now. I haven’t found my thing, my passion, but I want to. I want to search for what makes me happy and then work hard. I want what is shining out of Weber’s face. I will not go back to medical school. I will drop out officially. It is over.
“If you’re okay, I’ve got to go,” Weber says. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
His voice is cool. The adrenaline has dropped away. I look at him, confused. It takes a second for me to remember that a few hours earlier I hurt him badly. I remember dimly, as if through a long camera lens, the scene I made at Dairy Queen.
The anger and the ice are no longer resolute—they’re melting. I almost laugh at myself. I am falling apart into someone Lila Leary wouldn’t talk to, much less inhabit. I might as well be Belinda, sobbing over a banana split, or Gracie, waiting in the car, talking to her unborn child.
Weber is looking at me with mild expectation. I can’t speak; I don’t think I can string words into a sentence. A massive metal ladder passes to one side of us, rung after rung. There is a tired-looking fireman carrying each distant end.
I smile at Weber, trying to communicate something. But he’s turned away. He’s watching the men prop the massive ladder against the side of the building with the least damage. I am warm and whirling from head to toe, and I crane for another glimpse at the look on Weber’s face. I want another glimpse of my future. But it’s too late. With a short wave over his shoulder, he’s headed back toward the fire.
NOREEN BALLEN
I spend most of my day sitting on a hard-backed chair next to Mrs. McLaughlin’s bed. She has been home from the rehab hospital for three days, but the move exhausted her. She works with the physical therapist downstairs in the morning, and then in the afternoon she and I take a short walk around the grounds. For the moment, I leave it at that. As she gets her strength back, I will ask for more from her.
I suspect that the sleep she has gotten over the last seventy-two hours is the first good rest she has allowed herself in weeks. At Valley Hospital, she would ask me to wake her up if I saw one of her children approaching because she wanted to be conscious during their visits. She was afraid they would try to move her to the nursing facility while she slept.
From what I saw, her children were not much of a threat. Even Kelly, the oldest, was too flustered to initiate such a drastic step. All of Mrs. McLaughlin’s children are worried about her. I can see that they are in for a terrible shock when they finally realize that Catharine McLaughlin is dying. She fought so hard to come back to this room because it was home, because she wants to die at home. I have seen old men and women make this decision before, and I have watched them fade until they’ve carried out their wish.