“Enjoy your book,” she said, walking carefully to the kitchen for a bottled water, then down the hall to her bedroom.
Chapter 14
It was our second week of classes, day twenty-three of my ninety with Drea—not that I was counting—when the heat wave finally broke. I’d always thought the middle of the country would have more of a dry heat—something about the absence of the ocean. I was wrong. The humidity in Bering was as bad as Ashville. Worse, since our apartment back there at least had air-conditioning.
But finally, I woke one morning to find the fan’s breeze crisp and dry across my legs. It was Tuesday and I had an early shift at Cuppa, six to eleven, but the rest of the day was mine and I knew just where I’d go—the park on the south side of Bering, my favorite place to study.
I was eager to continue our assignment, Aristotle’s Nichoma-chean Ethics. Philosophy was every bit as interesting as I’d hoped, Professor McMillan pacing the front of the classroom asking question after question, the Socratic method, I now knew. I’d found myself doing it too, to see if Aristotle was right that everything we do has the end goal of happiness. Why did I wear a black shirt? Because I had to work and coffee stains on my clothes make me self-conscious. Black shirt equals clean and confident. Happy. Why was I making an espresso? Because if I didn’t the customer who’d ordered it would get angry. Then Doug might fire me; I’d have no job and be back to moping around the apartment, maybe with Drea there. Definitely less happy. How could my mother have run away at sixteen? That one I had no answer for. Inconceivable.
Still, I thought Aristotle might be on to something.
I looked forward to our Monday and Thursday sessions. The empty seats in our second class were fewer than I’d expected, though I understood why Professor McMillan had warned us. Philosophy was hard. It could take an hour to get through five pages and really understand them, unlike my classes at Ashville High, where I’d mostly had to memorize dates and facts. This was thinking.
I’d started to wonder if maybe it could help me sort out the mark, answer some of the questions my trip to the library hadn’t.
Professor McMillan had said that Lucas would teach part of our next lesson and I was eager to see how he’d handle it. He hadn’t asked me to coffee again, barely acknowledged me in classes. I was disappointed, but tried to focus on the lectures instead of the way his dark hair fell gracefully forward as he jotted notes in a black journal.
It was just before noon when I entered the park carrying my bag filled with pencils, textbooks, and lunch. I had barely gotten to spread my blanket on the grass by the pond when I saw the woman with the mark.
I felt the familiar queasiness mixed with a tiny touch of relief, like the way you hold your breath during a scary movie until the killer jumps out or you finally see what’s behind the closet door. I’d expected it to show up again, though not so soon after the woman at Cuppa. It made me worry that maybe it was somehow feeding on itself, getting stronger.
This woman walked right toward me, the glow clearly visible even in the bright sunshine. For a minute I had a weird feeling she knew and was coming over to yell at me or ask for help, but she was smiling, blissfully unaware.
“Here, Ginger!” she called, and I realized she was walking toward me, to fetch the dog who’d run to the edge of the pond.
At the sound of her voice, the dog turned and started back up the slope, stopping by my blanket. She sniffed at its edges, probably still smelling of Nan’s incense. I felt the woman beside me, watched her well-used sneakers gently prod the dog away.
“I’m sorry,” she said warmly. “Ginger, no!”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.” My voice was thin, barely able to force out the words. I looked up at her, shielding my eyes from the sun. Wishing I could cover them to block out the light around her.
“What a beautiful day,” she breathed. She was older, maybe in her late forties or early fifties, slightly overweight and smiling. I could tell from the creases by her eyes and mouth that it was an expression she wore often.
“Yeah, it is,” I said. Together we watched the pond, light glinting off soft ripples in the water like shiny fish flicking to the surface. Ginger had finished her inspection of my blanket, deemed it good, and moved on to my leg.
“Just push her aside,” the woman said, shaking her head ruefully. “She can be such a pain.”
“I don’t mind, really,” I told her. “I love dogs.” I scratched Ginger’s ears, happy for the distraction. Her fur was warm and silky, and she rolled her head back, pushing into my hand for more. I stole another look at the woman, watching her dog fondly. Out of habit, I checked her left hand. No ring.
“I feel blessed to have days like these,” she said. “I took today off for her vet appointment this morning. It’s been so hot, I thought we’d end up inside most of the day, and look what we got instead.” She turned her face up to the sky, still smiling.
I wondered, as I always did when I saw them, how it would happen. And whether it was better or worse that it was unexpected, as her death clearly would be.
Ginger looked up then, her ears perking at a squirrel scavenging nearby. Like a rocket, she was gone, blazing a path toward the nut tree the squirrel scampered up.
“Ginger!” The woman turned to follow, giving me a quick wave before she left. “Enjoy the day!”
“You too,” I said automatically to her retreating back, immediately feeling stupid. Of course she wouldn’t. I watched the woman standing by the tree, arms folded as she patiently waited for Ginger, running rings around the trunk. Finally the dog came to a stop, jumping up, scratching at the thick bark, before loping over to her master. The woman squatted, nuzzling the dog’s neck and talking, the hum of her voice barely audible. I felt terribly sad. Why her? Why did she have to take today off work?
It was wearing on me, seeing these people with the mark. Knowing what it meant made all the difference, even though I tried hard to pretend it didn’t. I mean, everyone dies, right? What did it matter if it was today or tomorrow or next year, or if I knew about it or didn’t?
But it did matter. Even if I couldn’t help, I had started to wonder if I was wrong not to tell them. Was I denying them a chance to make whatever final preparations there were: say goodbye, call their lawyer, or the mother or daughter they hadn’t talked to all month, the husband they’d had a fight with last night? Or was it better to let things take their course, let that woman enjoy what she could of her last day?