“You have some news?” Holly asked.
She sat next to Jack and flashed a smile at him. For the second time that day, he acknowledged a stranger’s greeting, a good sign. “Nothing about Nicholas, I’m afraid, no real changes, everything’s the same. He still hasn’t woken up. But his parents arrived at last and have had the chance to see him. They’re planning on coming to talk with you shortly.”
“How did they seem to you?” Tim asked.
“As you might expect,” she said. “Quite a shock, and they are tired from the journey. After you’ve had a chance to discuss matters with them, let me know what you think about my idea.”
Jack squirmed in his chair and put down the game. Earlier in the day the doctor had suggested that he come talk to Nick in the bed, that the sound of a friend’s voice might stimulate a response. When he had first heard her proposal, Jack had hidden behind his mother’s arm, but now that he had time to consider it, he was willing. He nodded his consent.
“Good boy.” The doctor patted him on the leg. “I’ll let you all know if we can arrange it.” In her crisp white jacket, she projected authority, but her charm had won over Jack. With a nod, she disappeared into the maze of the wards.
They went back to waiting.
“What are we going to tell them?” Tim asked at last. “That a monster showed up and chased them into the ocean? A monster our son made through his drawings. Good Lord, they’ll never believe it.”
“We’ll tell them the story we told them on the phone,” Holly said. “That the boys were out playing in the snow and went too close to the water.”
He folded the newspaper and tossed it on the coffee table. “They doubted it on the phone, I could tell. They know that Jip never leaves the house.”
“Stop calling him that,” she said. “‘Jip’ sounds insulting.”
Leaning across the chair, Tim tapped his son on the shoulder. “What do you think, J.P.? Do you feel insulted?”
“Just stop,” she said.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
“Everything, don’t you see? There’s a little boy lying in a hospital bed. And your own son put him there. And you, you never believe me. Out chasing things.” Her face was red with anger.
Fred Weller had slipped into the room and stood directly behind her. With a polite clearing of his throat, he announced his presence. Holly turned to greet him, and saw how his sunburned face had collapsed with worry. Melting in her own grief, she reached for him, and he embraced her as she collapsed into sobs. “I’m sorry,” she said. “So, so sorry.”
From over his shoulder, she saw Nell enter, flat and emotionless. She did not smile or frown, barely functioning under sedation. Tim rose to meet her, but Nell bowed her head and curved away and would not let him touch her. He seemed so helpless to Holly, abandoned and bereft, that she almost felt sorry for him in that instant.
On the sofa, Jack busily scrolled through the smart phone apps searching for a new game.
“Nell, I am so sorry,” Holly said. “It was an accident.”
Miles away, Nell stood all alone in the middle of the room. When she began to speak, her voice was strange and low and without affect. “He looks like he is just fading away. Yellow bird, yellow bird.”
“I’m sure he’ll come out of it,” Fred said.
No one moved. Only the hum of the fluorescent lights and Jack’s tapping at the screen broke the silence. At last Nell summoned the courage to raise her chin and look at Tim. “I cannot bear to lose him. We thought he was gone three years ago. How could you let this happen?”
“I’m sorry, Nell,” he said. “I would do anything to save him. He’s like a son to me.”
Her face snapped to anger. “Not yours, never yours.” She pointed at Jack. “That there’s your boy. That’s your son.”
Tim put his hand to his mouth and slumped into a chair. Holly positioned herself between her husband and her son and rested a hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Holly,” Nell said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“They’re doing everything they can,” Holly said. “We all are.”
Each adult retreated to a private misery. Jack tapped out another code on the phone and handed it to his mother. A word game in which you used digital letters on faux wooden tiles to spell out words. He had written “wicked.”