by Anne Riley
Mortiferi.
I don’t even know if I’m hearing it right.
Fight them. Fight them with all you have. And whatever you do, always protect our secret.
The redheaded nurse walks around Papa’s bed to the heart monitor, and as she passes between the two of us, our eye contact is momentarily interrupted. Something almost tangible, like an invisible cord, snaps in two—
The connection is gone.
Papa roars into his mask.
“Sir!” Roderick cries. Then, to the redhead, “What happened?”
The tubes and monitors jerk as Papa struggles to escape his bed. An alarm wails somewhere in the room, and I’m shoved into the corner as a gaggle of nurses swarms around him. Two of them pin his arms down while another tries to talk him into submission; the rest set about adjusting switches and checking monitors.
“Hold steady, Mr. Clayton!” Roderick shouts over his screams. “Please, you’ve got to stop! Sir! Please!”
But Papa doesn’t seem to hear him. He claws at his bedsheets as if he’s trying to break free and run from us, from this place. Instead of words, he produces muffled grunts from within the oxygen mask—but his horror-struck eyes communicate everything his mouth can’t.
Nana materializes next to me and stands, hands over her mouth, between the nurses and me. “Oh God,” she whimpers. “This is it, isn’t it?”
I shake my head, but I can’t convince myself she’s wrong. I’m pretty sure this is it, too. Papa was just saying a mysterious word inside my head and I might never talk to him again. I have to stop this. I have to calm him down so he can begin treatment and get cured. But I can’t.
I’m helpless.
The heart monitor starts to give off a series of short, earsplitting beeps. One of the nurses says, “He’s crashing again!” Feet pound down the hallway and the clatter of a cart echoes close behind. People burst into the room, so many people, all barking orders at each other.
“He’s going into cardiac arrest!” someone shouts.
“Edward!” Nana screams. Mom makes a choking noise in the back of her throat, and then Dad’s phone—which she has been holding all this time—drops to the floor. One of the nurses kicks it under a chair and Mom doesn’t move to pick it up. Paul is the one who sidles over to the chair and reaches for the phone with his long, trembling fingers. Dad’s eyes are wide. He’s shaking his head the way you do when a character in a horror movie is about to walk into the wrong room and you know there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
Except this isn’t a movie, and Papa isn’t an actor playing a part, and there won’t be any credits to signal the end of this nightmare.
I’m frozen, barely breathing. All the times Papa read to me when I was little swim to the front of my mind— the lilting rhythm of his voice, his fingers running over my hair. I always thought we had a special connection, but it was never anything like the current of desperation I felt coming from him as he spoke into my mind. I wish he would say something else, tell me what “Mortiferi” means—but a horde of people stands between us, and any chance we had of re-establishing that mental cord is gone.
“Not breathing,” someone announces, and Nana crumples into my arms, gripping my elbows with her bony fingers. Several pairs of gentle hands guide us into the hallway as her quiet tears become guttural sobs.
“Wait here,” one of the nurses says before hurrying back into Papa’s room. She closes the door, and watching the scene from the outside, in a silent hallway, is worse than being in the middle of things. I want to go back in, look into Papa’s eyes, and hear him speak thoughts to me again.
I keep one arm around Nana while I stare through the window. Mom has her purse pinned between her elbow and her ribs; her mouth hangs slightly open. Dad’s jaw works as he stares at Papa’s door. Paul shuffles to the other side of the hallway and examines a map of brightly colored fire escape routes.
If only we had an escape route from Papa’s cancer.
The nurses in his room fly around the bed, injecting something here and checking a monitor there. But no matter how many buttons they push or how many chest compressions they do or how many times his body jerks from the defibrillator, their expressions remain strained.
Finally, the doctor straightens and shakes her head. She motions for the others to stop. A short blonde nurse with wet eyes silences the heart monitor.
The team stands quietly aside as the doctor walks out to us and says, “We did all we could, but he simply couldn’t hold on any longer.” Her eyes droop, and she puts a hand on Nana’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
THREE
DEATHLY SILENCE DRAPES US AS WE ARRIVE AT PAPA and Nana’s—or, just Nana’s, I guess—townhouse. I still expect Papa to be here when we open the door, even though I just watched him die. Surely he’ll greet us with a hearty “At last!” from his favorite armchair in the sitting room, and then he’ll stand up and gather us into his strong arms while Nana puts the kettle on. I can’t imagine walking into this house any other way. I don’t want to imagine it any other way. But I’m seconds from stepping into this new reality, whether I like it or not, so I take a deep breath and rub my arms even though it’s not cold.
Mom and Dad stare at the ground while Nana jabs her key at the brass deadbolt. She misses one-two-three times before finding her mark. Paul bites his bottom lip and looks away; maybe he’s crying again, and if he is, I certainly won’t blame him. He’s endured too much heartache for a fifteen-year-old. I start to put an arm around him, but then pull back. He’ll just shake me off like he did on the train. The possibility that this was the last straw for him, that Papa’s death will be the thing that finally shuts him down for good, is too much to consider.
I have to keep him from falling apart.
Nana finally coaxes the door open with a loud squeak —the same squeak that made me cry the first time I came here as a baby. According to Mom, the only thing that distracted me from my fear was the door’s bright blue color, although now I can’t look at it as we lug our bags inside. Its cheerfulness sickens me.
Mom and Dad drop their suitcases by the door and walk straight to the kitchen with Nana; I’m guessing they’ll make some tea and sit around the small wooden table, rehashing Papa’s death and trying to figure out the next step.
Mortiferi.
What could it possibly mean? Did Papa really speak into my mind?
My talent is yours, dear girl. Take it and conquer.
What talent? And what am I supposed to conquer? That pressure on my chest, the wave of energy that crashed into me—what was all that?
I close my eyes and force myself back to that hospital room with the green spots on the floor. Papa’s face floats to the front of my mind.
Mortiferi.
I shut the front door and turn to ask Paul if he’s okay, but he’s already at the top of the stairs with his ratty JanSport backpack slung over his shoulder. The floor squeaks as he walks to his bedroom—Dad’s old room, the one that overlooks the cramped townhouses of Nana’s street, Camden Row. The bedroom door clicks softly shut and something thuds to the floor—his backpack, probably. Knowing Paul, that’s the last we’ll see of him until dinner, or maybe until tomorrow morning. I’d like to sleep for the next sixteen hours too, but my mind is racing and I’ll end up just staring at the ceiling. I need to go to the heath. But first, I need to call Stephen.
I duck into the sitting room and call him, closing my eyes in relief when he picks up and says, “Hello?”
“You have no idea how happy I am to hear your voice,” I say with a sigh.
The second I open my eyes, I’ll lose my mental image of him lying on his bed, arms crossed behind his head and phone on speaker next to him. I know that’s what he’s doing because it’s the only way he talks on the phone. I shut my eyes tighter, imagining his ruffled hair and the way his smile always looks adorably sleepy.
A girl giggles in the background. It’s fleeting and quiet, but definitely there.
&nbs
p; My eyes fly open and the mental image shatters. “Who’s that?”
“Uh, no one,” he says, and there’s a pause. Then his voice again, closer, as if he took me off speakerphone: “Just Hope.”
Hope is Stephen’s youngest sister. She’s nine, and that definitely wasn’t the giggle of a nine-year-old. I’ve heard that giggle before, six weeks ago, at the prom afterparty. I know exactly who it belongs to. But maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe the distance between our phones is playing tricks on my ear.
“Great,” I say lightly. “Put her on, I’d love to say hello.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Well, she’s actually using the bathroom right now.”
Surely this is not happening. Not now, when I need him the most. “If she’s using the bathroom, why did I just hear her laugh?”
There’s a loud snort, then more giggling.
Stephen whispers shut up.
Six weeks ago, when I walked into Rebecca Evans’s bedroom by accident (I was trying to find the bathroom), I found Rebecca and Stephen sitting on her bed together. Nothing was obviously wrong; they were both fully clothed and her desk lamp was on. But the door had been shut, and her hair was kind of messy, and Stephen had told me he was going outside to check the score of the Braves game. There was better reception outside, he said.
When I asked how he’d ended up in Rebecca’s bedroom, he said they were talking. And then Rebecca giggled.
“Stephen,” I say. My voice is scratchy. “Who are you with? And don’t say Hope.”
Silence.
“Is it Rebecca?” Please, please say no.
He sighs. “Look, I know you don’t like her, but Rebecca and I are—”
“Stop.”
Rebecca and I. He said it like it’s a thing. Like they’re some kind of unit.
After I found them together that night, things were different between Stephen and me. We still went out on the weekends, still kissed in the driveway when he dropped me off, still talked and laughed as if everything was okay.
But it wasn’t.
I asked about the Rebecca incident one other time, a couple weeks after prom. Stephen told me to stop accusing him of cheating.
I’m starting to think my suspicions were valid.
“Actually, Rosie,” he says evenly, “we need to talk.”
My stomach plummets to my toes. Sure, our relationship has been a little rocky lately, but we’ve been together almost two years. He knew Papa was sick. He knew how torn up I was about it. Surely he’s not going to break up with me now.
“So talk.” I clutch the delicate gold necklace he gave me last summer. I never take it off, not even to shower.
Most of what he says doesn’t fully register in my mind. He compliments me a lot, and Rebecca’s name weaves through his words, just like she probably wove her fingers through his hair the moment I left town. I manage a few uh huhs and one or two okays, but the only thing I really hear is his last sentence: “I don’t think we should be together anymore.”
I stare at the carpet and run my thumb along the necklace. I say, “My grandfather died today.”
Then I hang up.
“MOM? ARE YOU IN HERE?”
I’m creeping down the hallway toward the kitchen. My voice is like a cannon. I never knew a house full of people could feel so empty. I never knew I could feel so empty.
She’s sitting at the table with Nana, who’s clutching a bunch of tissues in one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other. Both of their eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and Mom’s knee is bouncing under the table.
My mother is many things, but never a fidgeter.
“I need to go out,” I say. Thankfully, my voice is even and I’m pretty sure my eyes are dry. I can’t bear to tell them about Stephen—not now.
“Out where?” Mom says.
The frown lines around her mouth seem deeper than before, or maybe she’s just frowning more than usual. I should stay; I know I should. But I can’t.
“The heath?” I say, not meaning for it to come out like a question. I swallow and try again. “The heath. Just for a little while.”
Dad’s leaning against the counter next to a cup of tea that must be his, but it’s still full and he hasn’t put milk in it yet. The carton sits next to his elbow with the cap still on while Dad glares at the floor. He huffs and shakes his head as if my request is the most asinine thing he’s ever heard. Mom looks at him like she’s expecting an outburst, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he picks up the still-unused milk, rips open the refrigerator door, slings the carton onto the shelf, and slams the fridge closed.
We wait in silence as he stomps out of the room.
“I guess it’s okay if you go out,” Mom says, refusing— as always—to acknowledge Dad’s anger. “But I want you back before dark.”
I squint through the kitchen window. The sky is already streaked with pink and orange. How did it get to be so late?
“That doesn’t give me much time,” I say.
Mom tilts her head with a sigh. “You’re really going to argue with me right now?”
Her eyes start to tear up again. I can’t take it—I’ve got to go, even if it’s just for half an hour.
“No, I’m not arguing.” I back out of the kitchen toward the entryway. “See you in a bit.”
I grab my green hoodie out of my bag and slip out the front door. The grief in the house is a quiet monster with claws and teeth, shredding our souls to dust. And the grief inside me—mostly over Papa, but also over Stephen—is wrapped around my organs, squeezing the life out of me one millimeter at a time.
At some point, I’ll have to deal with Papa’s death, and I can’t distract myself forever from the strange things that happened in that hospital room. But as I pull on my hoodie and tug the zipper all the way up, striding past carefully manicured gardens and surly cats weaving around trashcans, I don’t care. Tonight, I want a distraction. I want to breathe the cool evening air that’s such a contrast to Nashville’s soupy summer nights. I want to walk around the heath and think about anything but Papa. Anything but Stephen.
I stride past the line of tiny Renaults and Smart Cars that crowd Camden Row, then start up the hill that leads to the heath, taking comfort in the small things—the brick wall half-covered with ivy; the shaggy black dog at the house with the huge garden, barking at everything that moves; the neatly trimmed shrubs that sit inexplicably paired with wild, overgrown rosebushes.
As I crest the hill and look to my right, I actually manage a smile.
The heath—green, crisscrossed with pathways, and gloriously plain. This place carries a hint of magic I can’t sense anywhere else. As the breeze curls around my shoulders and the twilit sky stretches overhead, the ache in my heart eases.
Tonight, the heath is empty except for the trees that dot its perimeter and the old stone church, All Saints, which sits off to the right. There are usually more people out, but I’m kind of glad to be alone with the first batch of twinkling stars; I don’t have much time before nightfall, so I need to walk quickly.
I cross the street and set off down the nearest path. It runs through the interior and will take me to Duke Humphrey Road, where I’ll loop around the apartments on Talbot Place and head back home. This has been my route since I was twelve or so—whenever Mom and Dad started letting me indulge my introverted side by walking alone. It’s familiar, but not boring. The open air is already loosening the tension in my chest.
I reach up to the necklace that still hangs around my neck—the necklace I should have taken off the moment I hung up on Stephen. It’s two small interlocking gold rings on a delicate gold chain.
Stephen.
The pain of losing him rips through my chest. Our breakup is easier to deal with than Papa’s death, so I allow myself to start there as I walk. I let myself hate Rebecca Evans, and I let myself cry—for Stephen, yes, but then for Papa. My tears come with such force that I can’t keep walking. I can hardly see. Papa’s face, the way he screamed into
his oxygen mask—
Something moves on the other side of the heath.
My heart rams the inside of my chest and alarms wail in my mind—the result of Dad’s constant lectures on nighttime safety in Nashville whenever I go to dinner with my friends. But the thing moving is just a girl walking toward me, looking at her phone. She’s using one hand to keep her pleated skirt from blowing up in the wind while texting someone with the other, and she hasn’t noticed me.
She also hasn’t noticed the two guys coming from the other side of the heath.
They’re laughing and pushing each other the way Paul used to do with his soccer teammates after a goal. The weak light doesn’t reveal details, but I can tell that one is tall and lanky with longish hair and the other is short, stocky, and bald.
The bald guy looks in the girl’s direction and lets out a long wolf whistle. I roll my eyes—why do men think that kind of thing is charming? The girl crosses her arms with her phone still in her hand and picks up her pace, eyes locked on the ground.
“Oi, gorgeous!” calls the lanky one. He mutters something to his friend, and they both laugh. “Where you off to?”
A vague sense of dread forms in the pit of my stomach. I stop walking. I don’t like the way these two are moving at an angle that will allow them to intercept the girl, nor the leering tone in their voices. They haven’t seen me yet, but they will—and then what?
The girl starts running as best she can in her wedge heels. The bald guy takes off after her and catches her by the arm. I swear under my breath as my stomach clenches with panic. This is Blackheath, for crying out loud. Crime is way down on their list of concerns, right below alien invasion, yet this girl is getting attacked. She screams and tries to wrench her arm free, but he twists her elbow to the point that all she can do is shake her head, mouth open in a silent cry. Her knees buckle and she falls to the grass as his accomplice moves in on her.
“Hey!” I shout. “Get away from her!”
Either they don’t hear me or they don’t care. I run toward them, reaching for my phone to call the police— but it’s not in my back pocket where I normally keep it. It’s not in any of my pockets. I must have left it in the sitting room after I talked to Stephen.