“He’s gone.” Mama’s words come out barely louder than a whisper. “Don’t you understand he’s left me? With that whore Carla. Oh, God, Ruthie. How could he? Why? What did I do wrong? I thought we . . .”
There are no more words. Only tears. When I cry that hard it makes me sick sometimes. I just throw right up when I cry like that, and I wonder if Mama will need the trash can by her bed. Or if she’ll make it to the bathroom.
“You did nothing wrong,” Aunt Ruthie says. “You were the best wife he could have asked for. You did everything right, and the fault is not with you.”
It’s quiet except for the sound of Mama sniffling. I haven’t heard her cry since Pops passed not too long after Grams died. She told me then Pops couldn’t stay in a world without Grams. And now I know Mama doesn’t want to stay in a world without Daddy.
“I know it’s hard,” Aunt Ruthie says. “And you know I’m here. I was here before he came and I’m here now that he’s gone. We will get through this. There is a whole congregation behind you. A whole community behind you. But most of all, Mai, there is a little girl in that kitchen who hasn’t had a bath in two days and had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“Kai Anne?” Mama says it like I’m a surprise. Like she didn’t know I was still here. “Oh, God. I didn’t think . . . how long? Two days? Oh, God, Ruthie. I’m so sorry. I would never . . . Ruthie, what am I gonna do? Now that he’s gone and I have to raise her by myself? How will I take care of her? I don’t even have a job.”
“We’ll figure it out, Mai. I’ve told you. I’m here, and you’re not alone. But the first thing you have to do, and this is right away right now, is get up.”
GET UP.
Aunt Ruthie’s words sound as clear in my head when I open my eyes as they did in my dream. In the memories buried in my sleep. I glance around a semi-dark room, my brain struggling to compute my surroundings. The starchy gown, the antiseptic smell, the thin sheets. Over the last three months I got used to waking up somewhere different almost every morning, but I never in all my life woke up in a hospital.
And then my memories click like a camera shutter, assembling my last performance in a hazy pictorial. I woke up from a fitful nap in my dressing room, still feverish. Still aching and short of breath. But it was the last show. I kept telling myself I only needed to get through one last show. My routine was going fine until I hit the second song, and then the lights blurred and spun, a glaring kaleidoscope over my head. I stumbled, literally feeling my body shutting down limb by limb, my heartbeat slowing . . . and then oblivion. And now, I have no idea how many hours later, I’m here.
I look to my right, my eyes carving out a shape in the sheer dark of dawn filtering in through the blinds. I have no idea what time it is. I have no idea what day it is. I barely know my own name, but I know the man slumped in an awkward, sleeping pretzel, his tall frame squeezed into the small chair by my bed.
“Rhys.” My raggedy voice barely pushes the word out, but it abrades my throat. I reach up to touch my neck, like that will make it better, but the skin feels the same. It’s the inside that feels like a cheese grater.
“He hasn’t left this room.” The soft words come from the left side of my bed.
I turn my head, tears instantly collecting in my eyes when I make out Aunt Ruthie seated beside me, her Bible open on her lap.
“Aunt Ruthie.” The words emerge as a croak, my mouth working uselessly to get out my gratitude, my relief that she’s here. “You’re . . . I . . . you . . .”
My shoulders shake, soft sobs racking my sore body. Hot, salty tears slip into the corners of my mouth. I lift my hand to reach for her, only now noticing the IV in my arm. Oh, God. What’s wrong with me? What am I doing here?
“It’s all right.” She sets the Bible aside, crossing the small space between her chair and the bed to wrap a work-roughened hand around mine. She reaches into her pocket for a small handkerchief, dabbing at my tears. “You’re okay, baby.”
“But what . . . what’s wrong with me?” I look over at Rhyson, still asleep. If our places were reversed, and I was in that chair, waiting for him to wake up, I’d be going out of my mind.
“Pneumonia.” Aunt Ruthie brushes hair away from my eyes. “And exhaustion. And dehydration. You really did a number on your body, honey.”
“Pneumonia?” I shake my head against the cool pillow. “That’s not possible. I mean, I had a little cold. A cough.”
“And a fever, too, right?” Her brows climb into the sandy brown hair dipping over her forehead, a little more salt in it than the last time I saw her. “Apparently your ‘little cold’ left unattended became a lot more.”
How could I not know? How could I have missed that? I knew something was wrong, but I never imagined it was more than a bug I couldn’t shake.
“How’s Rhyson?” I whisper, still not ready to wake him. I know his concern will smother me like a blanket once he’s up.