Dick tucked Rose’s trembling body against him again and pressed his lips to her temple as she cried herself to sleep.
20
•••••
From the outside, The Palms at Southernmost looks like a hotel—three stories, buttery-yellow stucco with emerald-green shutters that match the tropical shrubbery around the perimeter, a one-story annex that could house an indoor pool. But inside, there’s no denying that this place isn’t a Hilton; it’s a hospital in disguise. Fluorescent lighting, scuffed linoleum floors, the rhythmic beep of a machine somewhere down the hall. The smell of cheap maple syrup from the breakfast trays stacked on a nearby cart clashes with some sort of bleach-based disinfectant and the lingering scent of human waste. A nurse with supplies piled in her arms cuts through the lobby at a power walk. A resident sits at a table working on a puzzle, and his eyes narrow as he pretends not to be eavesdropping on two nearby women in wheelchairs.
“Hey,” Hollis says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
He runs a hand down my arm. “You’re shaking.”
“Probably low blood sugar. All I had for breakfast was half a fig bar,” I say.
Hollis looks entirely unconvinced but doesn’t argue. His fingers intertwine with mine as we approach the large half-circle reception desk in the center of the lobby.
The woman is on the phone, cradling it between ear and shoulder like a pro. She gives us a smile to let us know she’ll be with us shortly. When she speaks into the receiver, I recognize her slight Jamaican accent. So this must be Rhoda, the receptionist I spoke to when I called the other day.
“Hello,” she says, placing the phone in its cradle when her call ends. “How can I help you?”
I glance at Hollis, begging him with my eyes to talk for me. He gives me a subtle shake of his head and squeezes my hand. He’s right; this is what I came all this way to do, and I need to be the one to do it. For myself. And for Mrs. Nash.
“We’re here to see a resident. Elsie Brown,” I force myself to say. “I’m not sure of her room number, but I believe she’s in... in hospice care.”
The receptionist’s kind smile collapses, and I know. I justknowwhat’s coming. It’s as if I’m standing in the middle of a worn-out bridge, and the rotten wood and frayed rope preventing me from plummeting into the dark, watery chasm below is rapidly disintegrating before my eyes.
“You’re the young lady who called on Wednesday, aren’t you?” Rhoda asks.
I nod. I can’t speak with this lump in my throat. My nose burns as the tears gather, ready to spill.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I wanted to let you know, but I didn’thave a way to reach you. Miss Elsie passed away Thursday morning.”
“No,” I hear myself say. “No, that can’t be right. My flight was scheduled for Thursdayafternoon. I was supposed to get here first thing Friday. So she couldn’t have... She has to be...”
Suddenly, I’m not inside myself but out. Hollis has his arms wrapped around a small redheaded woman’s waist, holding her to his body so she doesn’t collapse into a crying heap on the cold linoleum floor. His low “shhh”s and “I’ve got you”s in her ear are surprisingly audible for how far away I’m standing from them.It must be so nice to be comforted like that, I find myself thinking before I remember Iambeing comforted like that. And then all of the sensation comes rushing back. Strong arms that squeeze almost to the point of pain against my slack body. Hollis’s lips against my ear as he attempts to soothe me with a flood of words my brain can’t process. Hot tears streaming down my cheeks. One extremely gross snot bubble that keeps inflating and deflating in rhythm with my erratic breathing.
“Millicent,” Hollis says.
I lift my face to meet his eyes. Is that moisture glistening in the corner of the blue-gray one, or does it only seem like that because I’m looking through a curtain of water myself?
“I’m going to take you back to the car, okay?”
An attempt at a nod turns into a new, stronger bout of crying. I bury my face into his chest, turning the cotton of his T-shirt damp on contact.
“Hold on to me,” he says.
As if I could ever let you go.Thankfully my grief-drunk brain thinks the thought but can’t direct my mouth to say it. Which isgood because he apparently meant it literally; he hoists me into his arms, carrying me like a bride. I wrap an arm around his neck and fist his shirt in my hands.
There’s a metallic clunk as Hollis kicks at the automatic door button positioned low on the frame, followed by the quiet whir and woosh of the door opening. The light breeze feels like ice on my wet face, just like that night outside the restaurant in Georgetown. But here in Key West, Hollis’s lips press against my temple to summon the warmth to return.
“I’m going to put you down now,” he says.
He bends until the soles of my sandals reach the asphalt, loosening his grip incrementally to ensure I won’t crumple to the ground as soon as he releases me. Finally, I’m on my feet, standing of my own accord.
“I’m sorry, Mill,” he says, cupping my face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“No,” I say. “This is a mistake. It has to be a mistake again.”
