chapter 21
I burst through the doors of Harlin’s apartment building onto the sidewalk and feel the familiar whoosh of air. I stop and wipe the tears from my face. Right now I just have to get through this, so that I can go home. I just want to curl up under my covers and block it all out. Pretend everything’s okay.
But being okay is hard to do when the Need is ripping through my gut. I glance around the busy street and pause. There.
I stumble toward a white van parked at the curb. The side reads ST. LUKE’S HOSPICE. A woman walks around from the driver’s side and swings open the back doors. I stop, waiting to see what it is that I’m supposed to do.
She pulls out a black duffel bag before closing the door (although it doesn’t shut completely) and steps over the curb. She smiles politely at me as she passes and I turn to watch her walk into the apartment building next to Harlin’s.
When she’s gone, I look back at the van. I’m supposed to open it, see something. I’m so tired now, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I feel like a shell, almost like my own will is gone. At least that’s how I feel in this moment.
I walk off the curb and stop in front of the back doors of the van. I wonder if after this, if when this is done, I’ll be over.
Resigning myself to this horror, I glance around the back of the van. There are boxes and paperwork everywhere. I search for something to stand out, and soon my vision begins to blur. I reach out my hand like I’m blind and start feeling things, waiting for what will come into focus.
I’m not sure how long I’m there until I brush my fingers over a clipboard and suddenly my chest constricts, squeezing me tight. I look down and focus on one spot.
Warren Bradley—1850 W. Mission Blvd. Apt 715
And then I’m released. I stumble back, my vision clearing but my head spinning. I look up to check if the worker is coming back. I don’t see her and I quickly shut the door with a click before jogging down the street.
I start to wonder who Warren Bradley is, but then I decide I don’t care. My heart is aching. I’ve just lost Harlin.
I don’t mind walking the twenty or so blocks to the apartment. It may be the last walk I take. The wind is getting colder, whipping over my face but I like the feeling. It contrasts with the sickness in my gut, the one that’s making me do this. The Need that has ruined everything.
I get to the building and look up to the seventh floor. The intricate brickwork outside culminates into a large archway, leading to a set of glass double doors. There’s a bronze plaque fastened at the entry, telling me it was built in 1890. I wince as a stabbing pain makes its way from my head down to my toes, but I don’t double over from it. I almost welcome it at this point. It means I’m almost done.
I walk into the lobby and notice the round tile swirling into a pattern beneath my feet. The walls are rich in mahogany wainscoting at least shoulder-height. I find the elevator and am grateful that there’s no one riding up with me. I don’t think I can stand still in an elevator and pretend I’m normal. I’m not normal. I’ve never been.
It seems like forever, but when I get to the seventh floor, the wind blows past me and I smile. I’ve made it.
I walk down the carpeted hall. Landscape paintings in gilded frames hang on the walls; heavy wood doors block out all sounds of life from within the apartments. With each step I feel myself slipping further and further away.
When I’m in front of Warren Bradley’s apartment, I stop. He’s waiting for me.
I knock tentatively. There’s a rustling from inside, but no answer. I knock again, taking short breaths because it’s all I can get in my lungs.
Still no answer. Now I’m beginning to panic because I want in. I want to be done. I’m so tired.
Reaching forward, I turn the door handle and it opens with a click. Under normal circumstances, breaking and entering would seem a bit much, but right now, the Need is so overwhelming, I push open the door.
The room is dark and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. There are windows in the living room that I can see from here, but they have shades pulled down, blocking out the light. It smells like antiseptic.
There’s a cough from the living room. “You’re early. My meds aren’t due for another hour,” a man says in a raspy voice.
There’s a jolt and I’m pushed down the hallway toward him. I’m suddenly scared, scared of who Warren is, scared of what I’ll be after this. My mouth is opening, trying to let words escape but they’re caught in my throat.
Warren Bradley is lying in the dark in a hospital bed. There is no light in here. I hear him suck in a breath and it’s loud, labored. Monroe has told me many times about that sound. The death rattle.
I swallow hard and walk toward him. Even though Warren is not glowing, he has a dull glaze of yellow aura when I get close enough. Next to his bed is a lamp, and I turn it on.
He’s staring at me. His lips are dry and cracked, yet he smiles. “You could have skipped me today,” he says. Warren wears his graying hair in a buzz cut, and he’s tucked up to his neck under a white sheet. I think that once he must have been really handsome. But now . . . now he’s skinny and frail.
“I don’t have any medicine,” I say. My heart is beating hard against my chest and I see his glow flicker, but it’s not coming to me. The Need isn’t coming out.
Warren furrows his brow. “You’re not with hospice, are you?” A look crosses his face, a mixture of fear and relief. “Do you think you could open the blinds?” he asks quietly. “I’d love to see the sunlight again.”
His request surprises me and I walk over to raise the shades. The room fills with light and I see how nice it is. Lots of antiques, a brightly woven rug in the middle, and shelves and shelves of books. When I look back at Warren, he’s watching me.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
His words freeze me. “What?”
Warren starts to shift in the bed, pulling himself slowly into a sitting position. When he’s settled, he waves me over. “Do you think you can sit with me for a while?”
I nod and drag a chair to his bedside. We watch each other until my Need seems to perk up again, pulsing though me stronger every second.
“You’re sick,” I say, in my own weak voice.
He smiles sadly. “I am.”
“What is it?”
“This time? Pneumonia.”
I close my eyes and try to see him, see his story, but nothing comes. I begin to wonder if I’m in the wrong place when he holds out his hand to me.
Does he know me? I feel like I’m missing something, but without hesitation, I reach for him. The minute we touch, the world goes black.
I am a boy, my parents are driving the station wagon and we’re going to Disney World. I’m so happy. My brother is next to me, talking about his girlfriend, but I just gaze out the window. The scene changes and I’m in high school. I have a lot of friends, but no dates. People don’t understand.
Sadness overwhelms me. I’m sitting at my father’s bedside and he is an old man now. I’m crying but he keeps his face turned away from me. He won’t speak to me. Even now, he won’t speak to me.
And then I find Roderick. He’s the most loving man I’ve ever met, and he takes care of me. We take care of each other. We’re thinking of adopting, but then I’m at the hospital . . . with Roderick. He’s been diagnosed, but no one can know yet. Only me. We’ll deal with it together.
“What’s your name?”
Warren speaks and it breaks my vision. I sway in the chair and stare at his dull glow, the only thing I can see. I wait for the words to come, and after a second I can speak. “Charlotte.”
He smiles. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says.
Tingles race over my skin. “You have?”
He nods. “Saw you once, when Roderick died. You were in the hospital with him. Of course, not as you are now, but I recognize you still.”
My lips part and I want to pull my hand out of his, oddly afraid of his words. But as I meet his eyes, his glow goes out and my vision returns. I see his chest rising and falling slower. He’s almost gone and I still don’t know why I’m here.
“Your mother?” I ask. “Do you want me to call her?”
He closes his eyes and then shakes his head. “No, she passed away a few months ago. She talked to me though. Apologized.”
I exhale, feeling relieved. I thought that maybe I was here to help him reconcile with his family, to heal some of that hurt. But it seems that already happened.
“Then why am I here, Warren?” I don’t even mean to ask it out loud. But he looks at me so sadly that I feel my entire body shudder from the sorrow.
“Because I don’t want to die alone.”
Tears begin to stream from my eyes, hot on my cheeks. I put my other hand on Warren’s and squeeze it tight. I am filled with love for him, love that’s beyond me. He sniffles and tilts his head to the side. Suddenly his eyes get wide and I straighten, afraid he’s passing away. But instead he reaches out with his free hand to touch my cheek, rubbing his thumb across it.
His expression changes to reverence. Amazement.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, staring at me. “It’s so beautiful.”
I’m gasping, both horrified and overcome with my own emotions. The Need fades, leaving me weak, but I hold on to Warren’s arm. He starts to cry, then laughs, almost rejoicing at the sight of me.
I don’t know what to do, so I just stay with him. I stay there until he gets quiet and his breathing slows. And then it stops—his eyes still locked on mine. I wait, hoping he’ll take in another breath, but when he doesn’t, I drop my head. And weep.