and, at this angle, looked more helpless than ever. More innocent. Like a baby in a crib. I wondered if Carl had ever looked down at Kaiya like this, and if he had, how he’d managed to walk away. I didn’t want to judge him. Who was I to do that? But, then again, seeing with my own eyes what he’d abandoned, how could I not?
“Damnation,” I muttered, pacing to the window and back. This little girl needed us. If what I’d done for her today begot gratitude, then by God, she was worse off than I’d imagined. Alice was right. Josie needed to understand that her self-worth didn’t come in a bottle or from a bastard like Bates. It grew from inside and had to be watered right. And here we were, a house full of gardeners. Carl, Alice, Anderson. And me: Duffy William Sinclair.
Josie needed me.
Not since my brother, Cormac, had I borne a weight like that. And though I’d beaten Carl over the head all day long with the fact Josie had to go, as I stared down at this drunken barfly, this sleeping beauty, all I could think was: Hide her. Save her. Keep her.
I made my way around the room, using the bed as a guide. Zula had parked the wheelchair at the end of the dresser. I backed it up to our door, so that the handlebars pressed against the cheap laminate, and locked the brakes.
Then I sat in it.
I figured I wasn’t going to sleep anyhow, and we couldn’t risk Nora bursting in, like she did whenever we didn’t answer her good mornings. I would be a human doorstop—a crude solution, but a solution nonetheless.
After settling into the wheelchair, I crossed my arms. Surprisingly, I didn’t count ceiling tiles or mini-blind slats. I didn’t wonder about the meaning of life or the lack thereof. I just sat there, listening to the soft hum of Josie’s breathing and the deep draw of Carl’s, more content in the moment than I’d been in a long, long time.
The Centennial Schedule
August 27—Sunday
8:00: Breakfast
9:30: Arts and Crafts, Atrium
12:00: Lunch
3:00: Current Events, TV Room
5:00: Dinner
6:00: Campfire Sing-Along, Living Room
18
The knocking didn’t wake me. Neither did Nora’s yelling. I finally came to when she tried to open the door and the wheelchair skidded an inch. Carl sat up at about the same time, while Josie stayed dead to the world.
“Mr. Duffy,” Nora called, a panic edging her voice. “Is that you there? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but had to clear my throat and try again to make it sound believable. “Fine.”
Through the crack she said, “What’s in front of the door?”
“Just me sitting here in this wheelchair,” I yelled over my shoulder, “while Carl gets going. Don’t come in. He’s bare-assed as a baby.” I pointed frantically to my bed.
Carl looked to it and back at me, confused at first.
She’s back, I mouthed.
His eyes widened. He threw off his covers—a smile stretching clear across his face—and reached for his walker.
“Mr. Duffy, move, sir, so I can help Carl.”
“He’s doing fine today, Nora. Aren’t you, Carl?”
“I am,” he said, even though I could tell he was counting down. He did this sometimes when he hurt too much to stand.
I said, “We’ll be down to breakfast in a minute.”
“Mm-hmm. I know what kind of timetable you boys run on. Let me help. Open up.”
Carl rose, grimacing, and made his way to Josie.
“Wake her,” I whispered. “Make her hide under the bed.”
“Mr. Duffy, did you hear me? Open up.”
“Just a moment,” I said. “I’m seeming to have a problem here. Like the brakes are on or something.”
“Why are the brakes—”
“Hold on now, let me just see—”
“Stand up, Mr. Duffy. That’ll help.”
Carl poked Josie’s back. In response, she moaned and blindly waved an