Dubbs comes out of the bathroom and stares at us. Then she crawls onto the bed beside Ma and tugs a soft blue blanket up around Ma’s shoulders. She pulls a strand of her own bright hair between her lips to suck on, and then tilts her head to share Ma’s pillow. At the sight of the two of them together, a new crack opens in my heart. We’re the whole family now. Larry’s gone. No matter who else might be there for us—Linus, Burnham, Thea—when the door’s closed, we’re the only ones together behind it.
“Do you think we could get a dog like Solana?” Dubbs asks, like the decision is up to me.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I say gently. “Can you stay here with Ma?”
“Yeah. Where are you going? To help Thea?”
“If I can,” I say.
She snuggles deeper into the pillow. “Okay. Good.”
*
I take a quick shower and slip into a new pair of jeans, a soft yellow shirt, and some flip-flops before I head downstairs. The house smells of wood polish and the faint, spicy tang of faded smoke. Sunlight collects in a blue-and-white bowl on a circular table. As I trail a hand along the banister and descend the second flight of stairs, I hear voices from the back of the house, and then Madeline appears by the newel post. Pressing her hands together, she offers a quick, nervous smile.
“Can I see Thea?” I ask.
She exhales in relief. “Yes. Please,” she says. She backs up a couple of steps into the living room, her green dress swaying over her golden sandals, and then she turns to guide me. “I don’t know how much Tom told you. She’s very ill. The doctors warned us back at Chimera that her dream transplant might fail, but she was well for so long that I guess we thought she’d beaten all the odds.”
“She was in bad shape after she had the baby,” I say.
“I know,” Madeline says. “Very bad. She’s never quite been stable since, and then she crashed yesterday.”
“After my call.”
She shoots me a worried smile.
“Do you think it’s related?” I ask.
“To be honest, I don’t know what to think anymore. Did she say anything to you about having headaches?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I knew it,” she says. “She kept insisting she was fine.” Then she adds, “This way, please.”
Madeline leads me through a living room and a library, a solarium and a den. We pass model ships, an antique gun collection, and a trickling fountain. My flip-flops sink into deep, indigo carpets, and every wooden surface gleams, like in a fancy hotel.
“When I talked to Thea, she told me Orson Toomey was here,” I say.
“Yes,” Madeline says. “He’s still with us. He’s done all he can, but I’m afraid it hasn’t helped.”
“Can you trust him?” I ask.
“What do you mean? He saved our daughter’s life. We owe him everything.”
Her gratitude shocks me until I recall that Thea’s parents have never known about the underside of Chimera. All of the connections to the dreamers at Forge and Grisly are still completely secret, which means Madeline is not going to be receptive to what I could tell her about how Orson acquired Sinclair 15.
This is not going to be easy. For now, I decide to keep my information to myself.
We descend a couple of steps into another wing of the house where the ceilings are higher and the floors are made of golden wood. In a small sitting area, a petite black woman with a sparkly barrette sits before a busy computer screen of medical readouts.
“Any change, Doris?” Madeline asks.
“No, ma’am. I would have called you,” the nurse says. “Tom has the baby.”
“Thank you,” Madeline says.
She stops outside a door and turns to face me. For a moment, her keen gray eyes appraise me soberly like she has a million things to say, but in the end, she simply opens the door and ushers me in.
Thea lies asleep in a hospital bed in a large, sunny bedroom. Her chest lifts and falls rhythmically, and her hands are folded serenely on top of her blue blanket. The lump of her pregnancy is gone. A patch is attached to her temple, an IV goes into her arm, and a clamp is taped to one of her fingers. As a soft hiss comes from a machine behind her, I glance over to see a monitor recording her heartbeat in a pulsing, jagged line, and it seems to match the tempo of my own heart.
We’re the same inside. How many times did she insist that was true?
Madeline steps over to adjust a vase of colorful flowers beside an empty bassinet, and I move a bit closer to Thea. Her dark hair is smoothed back from her face with a red hairband, and her ear piercings are empty. Her cheeks are too thin, and her tan complexion has gone a sickly gray. Worst of all, her closed eyes have a bruised, sunken look that reminds me of the dreamers.
She looks so helpless like this. Both old and young, and not like Thea at all. I hardly know what to say. I look to Madeline and realize she’s barely repressing tears. She smiles, touching a hand to Thea’s arm.
“Look, darling,” Madeline says tenderly. “Look who’s here. It’s Rosie, your friend. All the way from California.”
Thea simply lies quietly, not responding.
“Oh, Thea,” I say. My voice drops low, and I can’t manage a real hello.
Madeline runs her hand over Thea’s forehead. “She’s such a good girl,” she says.
Don’t talk about her like she’s a toddler, I think. Then I feel rotten for being critical of Madeline. I clear my throat. “What’s the plan? I mean, how long can she be like this?” I say.
Madeline crosses her arms. “We’re just taking each hour as it comes.”
It’s the worst sort of answer. I can’t stand to be suspended in a state of not knowing. I shift closer and lift Thea’s hand, surprised at how light and cool her fingers feel.
“Hey, Thea,” I say. “It’s me, Rosie. We’re going to get you out of this, all right? We’re not going to leave you in any coma. You’ve got a baby that needs you, and all the rest of us need you, too. Hear me? We’re going to bring you back.”
No matter how much I want to believe she understands me, her face doesn’t change at all, and her hand is lifeless in mine. Even so, I’ve made up my mind. I was helpless to save the dreamers in the vault, but I can do something for Thea. I glance up at Madeline.
“She can have my dreams,” I say.
Madeline’s face crumples in pain, and she presses her fist to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just, I’m so thankful. But I don’t know—” She can’t go on.
“If it will help?” I finish.
She nods, sniffing, and wipes at her eyes. “She’s just been through so much,” she says in a tight voice.
“I know. But we’re not giving up on her,” I say. “Let me talk to Orson.”
She nods. Then she lets out a broken laugh. “I’m sorry. I thought I could keep it together. I don’t want to pressure you, but you’re really our last hope.”
I smile. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head, wiping her eyes again, and then she reaches for a tissue and blows her nose.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
*
My stomach’s uneasy, like when I’m on my way to school. I’ve been told Orson is coming up from the guest house where he has a room, so I’ve gone out to the porch to wait for him. I’ve tried to prepare myself, but still, when he first steps into view, crossing the lawn, my breath catches in my throat.