“Imagine her allowing someone else to take him to the hospital!” Bruce whispered to Markie in the living room, where she was draping Ronda’s jacket over the spindle-leg love seat. That should have triggered something in Frédéric, Bruce said. Something should have fired in his head, warning him. If she wasn’t well enough to go with him, she wasn’t well enough to be left alone. He would never say as much to Frédéric, of course, he told her. “The guilt’s got to be eating him alive already.”
She had fallen asleep with a cigarette in her hand. Frédéric had let Bruce know this. She must have gotten up after Frédéric and Simone left. That itself wasn’t significant; she had risen in the middle of the night to smoke before. But always—always, Bruce repeated emphatically—she had sat in her armchair to smoke it, her ashtray balanced at her elbow. She was aware of the dangers of smoking in bed. The only explanation, he said, was that she had been feeling too sick to sit upright or to think straight.
Markie couldn’t imagine how Frédéric must feel. All those years, never leaving her alone for a night, and the one time he does, this? While he was gone with her estranged sister, no less? Not that a trip to the ER was a night on the town, but still. Would he torture himself forever, imagining her last thoughts, thinking about that fact that she was alone, and he and Simone were together?
They were crowded into the family room. Lola, awake and weeping, was draped over Ronda’s legs on the couch, asking questions no one had answers to or energy for. Why didn’t she get out of the house? Who called the fire department? Why didn’t they get there faster? When would they be able to go back inside? Who would make sure the house got fixed the way she would want?
Jesse and Bruce sat in the wooden chairs they had carried in from the dining room. Markie made preposterous amounts of tea that no one drank and set out cookies no one ate. Patty paced, pausing every minute or so at the couch long enough to stroke Lola’s hair or rub Ronda’s heaving back and to repeat, without conviction, “It’ll be okay. Everything will be fine.”
They had managed to get the flames under control before the kitchen was destroyed, Ronda whispered to Markie after she had extricated herself from under Lola and made her way to the kitchen to help with the tea. But what consolation was that? It made her feel guilty, she said. Why would the kitchen be spared?
Frédéric and Simone arrived, and Markie ordered food. She had run out of patience for dealing with Ronda, who lacked the energy to cook but felt it was her duty to do it, so she kept making listless offers to “rustle up some things” while whispering to Markie that she hoped there would be no takers.
“Not your responsibility anymore,” Markie told her. Stupidly. She had meant for it to be a nice thing, and only after Ronda burst into tears did Markie realize her mistake. What was Ronda to do now, if not cook for Mrs. Saint?
Frédéric stood near the door. Every few minutes he peered out the window, as though maybe the old Frenchwoman would be walking over just then and heading for the bungalow. He refused to sit, take a sip of tea, eat a cookie. He would have refused to breathe, Markie thought, if he weren’t too polite to put the others through more trauma.
Simone was on the couch now, Ronda beside her. Lola lay with her head in Simone’s lap, her feet in Ronda’s, the cook rubbing the girl’s legs while Simone stroked her hair.
“Where will I do my homework?” Lola whispered to Markie when she brought her a glass of water.
“You’ll do it here,” Markie said.
“But she won’t be checking.”
“I’ll check.”
“Thanks,” Lola said, but Markie could see in the girl’s expression exactly what she was thinking: It won’t be the same.
Patty motioned for Markie to follow her to the dining room.
“I’m worried about Ronda and Bruce,” she said. She gestured toward Mrs. Saint’s house, not visible from the bungalow anymore since Markie had pulled all the blinds. “What do they do, if they don’t go there?”
Markie reached for Patty’s hand and held it in both of hers. “They come here, I think?”
“What about you, though? And your work? They’re not quiet, you know.”
“I can work downtown.”
“No! Absolutely not! I could keep them in the family room, maybe? You could work in here.”
“Frédéric will likely be in there,” Markie said. “I think he’ll sleep on the couch, so I’m guessing he’ll take over the room. And I imagine he’ll want to be alone, at least for a while.”
“Did you and him already talk about that?” Patty asked. “I didn’t hear.”
“No. But . . .”
“Right,” Patty said. “Where else?”
Kyle arrived with two grocery bags in his arms. “Jesse told me you’ve got a houseful of people, and it might be that way for a while,” he said. “I thought you could probably use some extra coffee and toilet paper and . . . well, there’s a lot of stuff in here. I hope it helps.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He told her he was happy to help. He knew what Mrs. Saint had meant to her and Jesse. And he offered to take Angel off their hands for a few days if she was getting in the way.
“I am worried about him,” Simone whispered to Markie as they tossed paper plates into the garbage, wrapped the leftover pizza, and rinsed the teacups.
Markie nodded. Frédéric still wouldn’t sit. “I think he feels it’s disrespectful to her if he relaxes,” she whispered back. “I’m concerned he might faint.”
“Yes,” Simone said. Turning to the family room, she said, “Frédéric, darling. I must insist again that you take a seat. You are worrying Mark—”
“No!” Markie interjected. “Don’t tell him that! He has enough on his mind.”
But Frédéric had taken the chair beside Bruce. Jesse and Lola were on the floor now, their arms around Angel.
“Sometimes it is good he feels so responsible for everyone else,” Simone whispered. “He will not sit for himself, but he does it for you. Anyway, I am going to stay on for some days, I have decided. I can get a hotel room. Perhaps he will want to do the same, though I expect he would be happier here, if you have room for him. He will want to be closer to her.” Her voice broke. “To her house, I mean.”
“Why don’t you stay, too?” Markie said, rubbing Simone’s arm. “You can take my room. I’ll sleep on the love seat in the living room.”
“I could not.”
“I think everyone would like it better if you were here with us,” Markie said. Simone widened her eyes, and Markie nodded. “It would make them feel more . . . complete, I think. To have all of us together.”
“If you are quite sure,” Simone said. “In truth, it would be nicer for me, too.”
“Listen,” Markie said, “I hope this isn’t too soon, but while we’re alone, I wanted to say how sorry I am that your final hours with your sister weren’t better. She told me she doesn’t believe in forgiveness, but I’m certain she—”
“Yes,” Simone nodded. “You are right. She knew I forgave her. She stopped me every time I tried to say it last night, but I know she knew that is why I came. To tell her that.”