“It always killed me,” Claire said. She was talking only to Julian, as if Fiona weren’t there. Julian, to his credit, didn’t look panicked at being in the middle of this. Maybe he knew what he was: a void, a sounding board, a necessary presence. “There was always—when I was a kid, there was part of me that thought if only I’d been born after he died, she’d believe I was him, reincarnated or something. Then I could believe it, even. I wished I’d been born that exact instant.”
Although Claire wasn’t looking at her, just at Julian and the Magritte plate, Fiona said, “It was never a competition, honey.”
“Ha!” It was too loud, but no one else was listening. “That is hilarious.”
Maybe this was good. Claire needed to say the meanest things she could, so they’d be out in the room instead of inside her. Still, all Fiona could think to do was cry, which wouldn’t help anything, so she managed not to. Julian took a step toward Fiona, put a hand on her back.
Claire put the plate down and picked up another, this one bright sky blue with that bowler hat. Usage Externe, the hat’s label said.
Julian said, “I know she did her best.”
“I’m trying to do my best now,” Fiona said. “Now that you’re a mother, don’t you—”
But Claire cut in. “She only wants to move here because there’s been a disaster. She wants to swoop in and be near the drama.”
Julian looked confused.
Fiona said, “What I’d like to be near is my daughter and my granddaughter. I’d like to make up for maybe being a depressed, shitty mother by being a decent grandmother. I’m not asking anything in return.”
Claire flipped the plate over as if she were checking the price. A thoughtful, resigned silence.
“You might not resolve this all in the gift shop,” Julian said.
Claire said, “I can’t control where you live. If you move here, you move here.”
It was as good as Fiona could hope to get from her, for now.
“Can I interject something,” Julian said, “as we head for the escalators? Because it’s probably time to head for the escalators.” Claire blinked and put the plate down, and they walked out across the broad lobby. He said, “Everyone knows how short life is. Fiona and I know it especially. But no one ever talks about how long it is. And it’s—does that make sense? Every life is too short, even the long ones, but some people’s lives are too long as well. I mean—maybe that won’t make sense till you’re older.”
He stepped onto the escalator first, and he rode backward to face them.
He said, “If we could just be on earth at the same place and same time as everyone we loved, if we could be born together and die together, it would be so simple. And it’s not. But listen: You two are on the planet at the same time. You’re in the same place now. That’s a miracle. I just want to say that.”
Claire was behind her, so Fiona couldn’t see her face, but she could feel her energy—she’d had so much practice, and it was all coming back—and at the very least, she could feel that Claire wasn’t annoyed, wasn’t rolling her eyes and wondering who this asshole was with his motivational speech. As for herself, she was grateful. She hadn’t remembered Julian being this smart, but she hadn’t been smart back then either. Thirty years could do a lot.
They were nearing the top. “Turn around,” she said, “before you trip.”
1992
For the first time in three weeks, he could breathe. Not well, but well enough that he could get out whole strings of words, whole thoughts and sentences. When he’d been so certain, only yesterday, that this was it, that each breath had only one or two more behind it. Part of him thought he should hoard each breath, save it for tomorrow, but mostly he wanted to talk while he still could, say things he wouldn’t be able to say later.
Fiona was in the chair beside the bed. Eight months pregnant, barely, and still so small—if she’d worn a baggy enough shirt, you wouldn’t have known. When she got to nine months, she’d promised him, she wouldn’t risk the drive from Madison. But it had become increasingly clear in the last week that she might not go back up there at all before he died.
The cannula was tickling his nose and he managed to adjust it without sneezing; sneezing would hurt. It was pizza night—Pat’s donated every week—and Fiona was eating a slice of pepperoni. Yale hadn’t had solid food in weeks, but this was the first time he felt a bit jealous watching someone else eat—a good sign. Or it would have been a good sign if he didn’t know full well that he was only feeling better because they’d changed his meds and were pumping him full of pentamidine and amphotericin again—backing off those was what had let his lungs get so bad—but these treatments would end up doing his kidneys and liver in. Dr. Cheng hadn’t pulled any punches on that. One of the volunteers had told him a long time ago that whenever someone had a good breakfast, that was it—the patient only had a few hours left. He wasn’t about to have a good breakfast, but these full breaths felt as nourishing, as ominous. The haircut guys had come through today, and he’d even sat up for that, with their help, and they’d shaved the back of his neck, massaged his temples with something that smelled like mint.
Fiona said, “Your eyes look so much better.”
“What did they look like?” He didn’t want to know, though, because soon they’d look like that again, or worse.
“Your pupils were just so dilated. It was like watching someone trapped in a tank of water. That’s probably what it felt like too.” She sighed, leaned down awkwardly to massage her swollen ankles. “You want the relaxation channel?”
Rafael came in then, getting his walker stuck on the doorway so Fiona had to get up and unwedge his wheel.
“I’m making a delivery,” Rafael said. “I lacquered it for you, so it’s shiny.” He was talking about the small birdseed mandala he held against the walker handle with his thumb, the one Yale had made a month ago in the art room. There was no space for Rafael’s walker between the bed and wall, so he handed it to Fiona to hand to Yale. “The art room isn’t the same since you aren’t there to play your terrible, sad British bands. That guy Calvin commandeered the stereo and it’s all fucking techno now.”
Yale held the mandala, although holding anything made his arms ache. He didn’t know what he’d do with it. Send it to Teresa, maybe, in California. She still wrote him cards once a week.
Rafael said, “Tonight’s the night. I’m cleared, and Blake’s picking me up in an hour.”
Fiona clapped enthusiastically, and Yale didn’t know how she had it in her. “Are you ready?” she said. “Are you set up?”