I plop into the chair beside the bed, stretch out my legs and toss the picture onto her stomach. “Lose something?”
“You don’t wear smug well.” Olivia picks up the picture, opens her Bible on her nightstand and slips it inside it. “It doesn’t work well with cocky bastard.”
“Nice to know you care, but on the serious side, Mom’s bent over finding this picture near Emily. Mind telling me why?”
“Did Eli see it?” she presses.
“Nope. Mom saved your ass. I also covered for you when Emily asked about it. Now that I’m involved let’s play a round of show-and-tell.”
“As I said, smug doesn’t become you.” Olivia fixates on the blanket and the shadows in the room threaten to consume us. She stares blankly, like she’s observing something that I can’t. Another time. Another place. I hate it. Mom once mentioned that maybe she’s seeing heaven. For me, that gaze sends me to hell.
Could be exhaustion. She could be lost in her own mind. According to the doctor, it’s probably a mini-seizure. All part of the progression of her illness. The doctor said it as if this is some grand design by God. Olivia has had a few of these episodes lately. Too many for my taste. I fold my arms over my chest, trying not to let it bother me, but it does. It slays me.
A lump develops in my throat and I begin to count. On two, Olivia blinks back to life. “Don’t tell Eli I gave Emily the picture.”
She continues our conversation, pretending her mind didn’t temporarily vacate the room, or maybe she isn’t aware the episode happened. But it did happen and it’s hard as hell to keep the anger simmering within me from seeping out in my tone. “What’s my real name?”
“I’m not an invalid.”
I overpronounce the words. “My name.”
“Jonathan.” No slurring and she’s correct.
Guess to check for a stroke, the doctor said we should ask her several questions after we witness that vacant stare, but I value my life so I stick with the one. “You should be asleep.”
“Sleep is a luxury I can no longer afford.”
A pit forms in my stomach and I can’t stand how my soul free-falls within it. She’s too damn accepting of what doesn’t have to be. “This round worked. I can feel it.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you. You’re optimistic.” Olivia removes the scarf from her head and I have to fight not to look away. Her bald head kicks me in the gut, but it’s the horseshoe scar near her ear that rams me straight in the nuts.
I say nothing in response because I don’t feel optimistic. I feel like my world is unraveling. We’ve received bad news before and Olivia always found a way to survive, but this round has a foreboding sensation. I lean forward and push the thoughts away. I loathe the emptiness they create. “Do you want something to eat? Drink?”
Her eyes are closed. Olivia does this now, can drift easily into sleep. When she’s sick, we take turns watching over her. I’m a night owl by nature and prefer the later shifts. Cyrus, Eli and I are the only ones who can stay awake in the silent darkness for hours, waiting for the moment Olivia should need one of us.
My fingers weave together and my head automatically drops. Please, God. Please let her live. The drapes near the open windows move with a gentle breeze. If that’s a response, I don’t know what it means.
“I want to sit on the porch,” she says.
I glance out the door to her room. Cyrus is on guard and he worries over Olivia enough. I could ask Eli or call my own dad for permission to take Olivia out of the house...
“When did you take to disobeying me?” she says with a hint of attitude.
My mouth twitches sarcastically. “When have you known me to listen?”
Her laughter is weak, but existent. “Do as I say.”
Olivia hates being dependent and I hate having to say the following: “I’m going to have to carry you.” Because with the toll this day has had on her body and mine, I don’t trust her to walk or trust myself to catch her if she stumbles.
“Fine.”
I lift her blanket-encased body from the bed. Olivia should weigh more, but the cancer has ravaged her. I ease out the screen door to her room, careful to keep it from slamming shut, and step onto the back portion of the wraparound porch.
I walk until I reach her favorite spot: the porch swing. That’s where she prefers to sit, but there’s no way she can support herself. Instead, I tuck her into the Adirondack chair Cyrus built for her last summer. Her head collapses back against the chair and she scans the yard. The dim light in the east casts a glow onto the drive that leads to town, the large garage that doubles as the clubhouse, and the woods surrounding the house. This porch is her favorite spot on earth.
I settle onto the swing beside her. She may not be able to sit in it, but the creaking sound of the swing brings her peace.