On her first day off, without a second thought, she called Cecelia.
Cecelia's sultry voice came over the line. "Francesca?"
"Hi."
"How are you? We've been worried." Francesca knew Cecelia had curled her knees into her chest. In some ways, Cecelia and Sloane were so alike.
Trying not to sigh, Francesca said, "I've been working and trying to learn how to be an adult without another human around me all the time. I haven't lived alone, except for after Sloane, since I moved out of Mama's house. From girlfriend to girlfriend and friends in between, it just never really happened. After Sloane, I hardly felt alone. She was there. I felt her there always. Here, I feel her, but not in the same way. She never took a breath here, never laughed or cried here; it just has her things and my memories. So here I am fully alone."
A knickknack fell off the shelf again.
At first, Francesca had believed it to be Sloane communicating with her. But after many conversations with the air around her, she knew Sloane had truly gone away. Her bookshelf, though, seemed to be haunted. Mama had leered at it, the first time it happened. Still, they'd rationalized it away, like she did as it interrupted her pouring her heart out.
"What was that?" Cecelia sounded far away, and a slam in the background punctuated her question.
"Am I on speaker phone?"
"Yes. I'm grabbing some cereal. It's the real dinner of champions, you know." She chuckled at herself. A distinct suction noise followed. "The box says so, or it used to. Or was that the American commercial?" Cecelia put on an announcer's voice when she said, "This cereal is made of cardboard and sugar, but you should feed it to your growing children! Thank us later!"
Francesca laughed. "I think it was the commercial with the little boy. Isn't he the one who ended up in rehab?" The moment for sharing had passed. Hopefully, Cecelia understood enough to see why Francesca hadn't called her back. "So, I was calling because–"
"Crap. I don't have but one and a half bowls of milk left." A cabinet slammed. "Sorry, you were telling me about how you haven't been alone before." Cecelia sounded slightly out of breath and distracted.
"Oh, I told you everything." Francesca shut down. "Anyhow, I was calling because I wanted to see if you could pick me up from work again? Getting a taxi has been very expensive lately."
"Of course." Her disappointment almost melted the phone.
"And have dinner after?"
Cecelia perked right up. "Absolutely."
No.
Francesca's lips still tingled from the kiss Cecelia had brushed against the crook of her mouth. She'd just left, barely driven away. Why were Francesca's hands shaking from anything but excitement?
The words that Tony spewed through the phone had left her head spinning.
They'd finally had a successful date that didn't end in Francesca crying or running away.
It had been the second-best first date Francesca had ever been on. Their conversation had bounced from topic to topic, but with every one, Cecelia had sparkled like the chandelier above them.
She'd enthusiastically recounted the last few chapters of an erotica novel she'd bought two days ago. Francesca had loved every bit of it, despite that fact it sounded terrible; reading it wouldn't have had the same entertainment value Cecelia's retelling did, though.
"So, Lori throws Kelly against the wall. You think this is it; finally, they are going to have sex. But no, Thomas charges in and kills the mood. What kind of male walks in on lesbians and doesn't encourage sex? The least he could have done was turn around and leave, but no. No, he doesn't do that; he decides to start talking to Lori about some dumb paperwork. Nothing sexy about paperwork," Cecelia had lamented.
"I suppose there isn't. Does that mean you want Kelly and Lori to be together?"
Cecelia had shaken her head. "Absolutely not. Lori should be with Ashley from the book before this one. I know you wanted her to be with Theresa, but they aren't right for each other."
"I didn't even know this was a series."
"Oh yes! There are fourteen books and counting. The last four books–before the last one–were duds. Thomas tried to date…"
Tony's voice broke through. "She's at St. Marco's Medical Center."
Since he'd said the word "accident," an image of a broken Sloane hovered at the edge of Francesca's thoughts. When he added the hospital's name, she stuttered. "I– I–"
"Do you need a ride? I can have someone pick you up?" Francesca imagined the shaken Tony pacing in the waiting room as he called person after person. His hair was probably in knots from tugging. "I know she was just there."
'We only had one glass of wine!' Francesca nearly screamed. She tried to move, but it was as if Medusa had stared her straight in the eyes. One foot hovered slightly above the floor as she stood in the bathroom focusing unblinkingly at the ruffled shower curtain. Partially cracked, she saw the flipped open shampoo bottle cap. It explained the overwhelming salon smell. Francesca wished she could look anywhere but the curtain. The mirror would only hold the horror of her face. The floor was unswept; long black hair would have turned her stomach. A bouquet of flowers hung from her deep purple walls.
"–swerved. It was a freak accident. The other driver died before the ambulance showed up. Cecelia's still out, so they only have witnesses to tell them what happened. One woman on the street thinks the other driver saw a squirrel or something. A fucking squirrel. Can you believe it?" His attempt to laugh turned into heavy, uneven breaths. "I've got to go. Are you sure you can make it here on your own?"
"Me?" Finally, Francesca blinked. "Yes, I can. I can get there." No longer connected to her body, her head bobbed and weaved.
"If you need us, call," Tony said before the line went quiet.
Francesca had to focus all of her energy on putting on sandals. When Mama's number showed up on the phone, she didn't bother answering.
Francesca drove like an old woman, ten kilometers under the speed limit–despite her desire to speed–out of fear. Slowly bruising hands clutched the wheel.
"Dear God, don't let Cecelia die," Francesca prayed aloud. "I know I only talk to you when I want or need something, but isn't that how it works? Fuck. You took Sloane; don't take Cecelia." She thought to curse him, but her silent curses were heard plenty loud enough.
As she neared the glowing red and white emergency sign, flashbacks of screams covered in blood rushed back.
She had little memory of driving, parking, or walking to the front desk, but she managed. The fog began to lift as she asked for Cecelia. The second elevator on the left dropped her off at the end of a stark hallway.
She followed it as though it were a white rabbit.
Words on signs had become symbols; Francesca may have forgotten Italian, she couldn't be sure.
A third hallway led her to a waiting room filled with more people than the average house party. Mounted high in the corner, an old TV quietly played a soap opera with a witch and triplets. Francesca thought her mother watched that one. One of the triplets was in a coma, but stable–how utterly predictable, and too close.
Alma and Tony saw her and rushed forward.
Finally, the tears hovering behind her eyes spilled out.
"The family." Alma motioned to the room. Though her voice barely raised when she introduced Francesca, Alma commanded the room's attention.
For the next few moments, her lack of breath had nothing to do with worry or pain. Tight squeezes from strangers came from all angles. As if she were family, they all gave her condolences before going back to their prayers and tears.
It struck her that Sloane didn't have that kind of emotion at her funeral. A few friends had come in cheap, worn dresses used for all occasions and rolled-out-of-bed hair. Harry had worn an ill-fitted suit and eaten a lot of cheese at the modest wake that was all Francesca could afford. He hadn't seemed broken up about it. Rachael hadn't shown up. An only vaguely recognizable woman at the funeral had told her Rachael was at a pool party. Francesca ha
d promptly excused herself to throw up.
Shakily, vomit still on her breath, Francesca had given the eulogy. If anyone had understood her through the hiccups and gagging, they must have been able to read lips. No one else said anything, which had Francesca wanting to spit on each one of the mourners. To hell with them.
She hoped Sloane had been spared from seeing the reality of their supposed friends. Cecelia wouldn't need to be spared. No matter the outcome, she had love. When the doctor came out, a hush covered them like a blanket.
He said what any good television doctor would. "She's lost a lot of blood, but we've done what we can for now. She's stable but in a coma. Now we just have to wait."
Wailing surrounded Francesca, cries of gratitude and pleas to God. The rest of the doctor's information seemed unimportant to the family.
Alma spoke above the familial chaos. "We'll be here until that happens. We'll take shifts, but we'll be here."
"I understand. But as I said, it could be–"
Her eyes narrowed as she cut him off with a spitting poison. "We'll be here."
The bakery ran at a steady pace, which kept Francesca's mind from staying in the hospital room. She slid into a rhythm revolving around nightly visits to see Cecelia. A new kind of grief flooded her.
Every memory, every thought, lead Francesca to pain.
On the fifth night of sameness: stories Cecelia couldn't hear, forehead kisses she couldn't feel, and hand squeezes she couldn't return, the doctor had news.
Francesca had arrived at the hospital at 6:40 pm. At 6:45 pm, Alma stood in the hallway and called for Tony. He tugged a piece of his hair out of the ponytail it'd been in for days. His nerves were fried.
Out of the corner of her eye, Francesca saw the doctor gently touch Alma's shoulder; with a blink and a nod, she crumpled soundlessly. After a moment between Tony and Alma–one so touching Francesca had to turn away–they walked into the sterile, beeping room tall and strong.
Francesca met Alma's eyes and knew but had to hear the words to be sure.
"Essie," Alma said, her voice quivering. No one but Mama was allowed to call her that–usually. Perhaps her childhood nickname was meant to calm her, but there wouldn't have been a way to soften the blow. "I thought I should be the one to tell you. Cecelia's brain has stopped working–sorry, 'functioning'. They said there was nothing they could do. She was doing fine, then she–"
Her knees gave way away. Tony barely caught her before they cracked onto the hard hospital floor. She still grazed it, though didn't seem to notice. Francesca had a phantom pain from her still-green knee.
Francesca swallowed and blinked away the oncoming darkness; it wasn't her time to cry. Kneeling down, she clutched Alma's hand.
"Alma, you don't need to say that ever again if you don't want to." Francesca remembered what a gut punch it had been for her. Every time she'd told another person about Sloane, a little part of her soul had fallen away. "I can do it for you."
A different kind of crying overwhelmed Alma–a grateful kind. "I'm so glad Cecelia got to have you for as long as she did; you are remarkable. I couldn't appreciate the offer more. But this isn't yours to handle. I have a great deal of family to contact, and we have plenty to discuss before tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Francesca gulped. Too soon.
No one could replace Sloane, but Cecelia had helped fill the void in a way she'd never imagined anyone ever could again. Now she'd have a second void.
"Her soul is gone." Alma had such surprising composure it felt practiced. "We cannot leave her body like this. I'll give the family one day to say their goodbyes to her body if they so wish, then we will allow ourselves to grieve."
An attempt at her usual pragmatic self, Alma had it all planned as if it were an appointment. Monday we visit the shell of our family member, Tuesday we let it die, Wednesday we feel, Thursday, what? Do they plan the funeral for the shell?
Francesca tried not to–she begged her insides–but she fell apart. In no way should she be the one being comforted, but Alma's arms surrounded her. Tony leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
The love they shared with her helped about as much as hearing her nickname.
A shout broke the silence. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here!" Mama had a near-collision with a nurse as she bounded down the hall.
Alma just opened an arm for Mama.
Tony broke the silence as he said, "I love you" to Cecelia.
31
Sloane
With a freedom Sloane was finally beginning to harness, she traveled through the hospital and observed moments where time would be moving as slowly as it had the day she'd died. A man slumped in the corner of the room yanked at his hair.
He stared intently at the two small children who sat on the edge of a brunette woman's bed. She had bright blue smeared eyeshadow up to her eyebrows and hot pink blush in a circular pattern on her cheekbones.
The smallest child, a blonde girl no older than five, held a makeup palette and wore a smile. Nurses rotated in as if they were doing a revolving door bit; only no one laughed. Sloane tried not to listen, but the nurse in bunny and carrot scrubs whispered "three days, at best" to a nurse wearing only plain blue on their way out of the room.
On a different floor, a woman held an unconscious man's limp hand. Alone, they were a faded photograph.
A female doctor with a purple stethoscope came in and asked if she wanted to call anyone–he'd be out for a while. But neither had any family; she was all he had. A pile-up on the highway, it seemed.
"Just keep him comfortable," the doctor told a nearby nurse. "When he wakes up from surgery, he'll have nothing to look forward to but pain and a worried wife. Both are very stressful."
After several more rooms and hallways and floors of family pain, Sloane found Francesca in a restroom near Cecelia's room.
Splashing her face with water, Francesca whispered to her mirror self. "Hold it together. You only have to make it home before you fall apart. You don't have a choice. You need to get some sleep. There's nothing you can do for her." She dried her hands on her jeans and tied her hair up. "Sloane, I wish you were here."
Francesca seemed confused by her own words, but she opened the bathroom door and stepped out without looking back into the mirror.
Francesca would be okay soon.
Soon, they’d be together. Sloane kept reminding herself of that.
Mourners filled Cecelia's room. Sloane hovered in the corner by Molly. Minutes until Sloane would have a window, she asked Molly what happened, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
"An opportunity presented itself." Molly giggled.
Sloane's entire body temperature flashed, despite The Gray having no breeze and her having no internal fluids. Feeling like a wrung out shirt, Sloane tried to focus on the amazing future she and Francesca were about to have and not the spots of blood on her hands that would never wash.
The doctor began his speech. "You may hear some sounds after I unplug the machines; they may even resemble breathing. Those are nor–"
Sloane checked out of the doctor's rehearsed speech to focus on her own, the one she'd planned to give the day she died. "Are you sure you can get it?" she asked Molly.
"Of course. You focus on melding, and I will see you soon."
"Will you? I mean, will we see each other?" The thought of never seeing Molly again brought mixed emotions.
Sloane could hear her stopped heart beat. The machine had been turned off, and silence had taken hold. Cecelia's mother and brother held each hand of her shell. The Gray's blurred filter became weighted, heavy as if anticipating a soul's attempt to shatter through.
"Never mind all of that now; it is time!" Molly urged. "Go!"
Francesca's lips came into focus, as Sloane sat on Cecelia's bed. She thought she had a strong enough memory, but she faltered; fragments of their life together, their love, struggled to become whole.
A small but beautiful moment popped into her head. Sloane hoped it
would be enough. December 22nd, two years ago, Francesca had squeezed Sloane's hand as they stood in line for the mall Santa. Sloane had always wanted to go and take a photo on Santa's lap, but her childhood had been a waste. As she'd grown older, she had become a Scrooge.
Francesca and Sloane had been binging the entire series of both Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel when Francesca paused abruptly and said, "Go get dressed! We're going to see Santa."
Groaning, Sloane had known whatever she'd say next would be useless. It wasn't as if Francesca hadn't had random moods or desires that led to adventures before. They'd almost always come at the worst time–such as in the middle of a TV marathon at 6 pm. "It's late and cold. Not to mention my hair is a mess, and I'm comfy. Besides, are you sure you want to brave the mall a few days before Christmas?"
"It's not late, you old woman, you. It's not that cold, either. I'll fix your hair in ten minutes or less, and you can be comfy again when we come home. We'll have cocoa." Francesca had grabbed a hairband from the side table, a twinkle in her eye. Of course one had been handy when Sloane was resistant to doing something.
"And braving the mall?"
"Will suck. But it's part of the experience. You know, getting irritated at shitty parents, wanting to punt a small child across the room to shut it up, hating the smell of play-dough, but also wanting to buy some because it's fun and making things you can smush is satisfying."
Sloane had felt old as she stood up from the couch. "Wow, you make it sound like so much fun."
Francesca had given her a perfect toothy smile and kissed Sloane's cheek. They were going. Despite her resistance, Sloane had known before they left that she'd have fun. Didn't she always?
Standing in line had been exactly what Francesca had said it would be: a child-filled hell that ended in her wanting to shop at Toys-R-Us. They'd both agreed they'd do that next, though they were both pre-grumpy about the whole–
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