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They’re still there when I’m startled awake I-don’t-know-how-many hours later by Greta Manville. The door unlocks, and thereshe is, no longer in a wheelchair but moving around with the help of a walker. She looks healthier than the last time I saw her. Not as pale, and more robust.
“I wanted to see how you’re doing,” she says.
Even though I’m half-comatose from the little white pills, enough anger courses through me to produce two words.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” Greta says. “What my entire family has done, starting with my grandmother. I know you know about that, by the way. You’re smart enough to have figured it out by now. Then my parents. Kidney disease runs in the family. Both of my parents needed transplants. So when I needed one as well, I returned to this place, knowing its purpose. And its sins. You judge me harshly, I know. I deserve to be judged. Just as I deserve your hatred and your desire to see me dead.”
The fog parts. A rare moment of clarity, fueled by anger and hatred. Greta is right about that.
“I want you to live as long as possible,” I say. “Years and years. Because each day you’re alive means one more day you have to think about what you’ve done. And when the rest of your body starts to fail you—and it will, very soon—I hope that small piece of me that’s inside you keeps you alive just a little bit longer. Because death isn’t good enough for you.”
I’m spent after that, sinking into the mattress like it’s quicksand. Greta remains by the bed.
“Go away,” I moan.
“Not yet. There’s a reason I’m here,” she says. “I’m being released to my apartment tomorrow. It’ll be more comfortable for me there. Dr. Nick says being in my own place will speed up my recovery. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Why?”
Greta shuffles to the door. Before closing it behind her, she takes one last look at me and says, “I think you already know the answer.”
And I do, in a hazy, half-conscious way. Her departure means there’ll be room for someone else.
Maybe Marianne Duncan.
Maybe Charlie’s daughter.
Which means I won’t be here by this time tomorrow.
49
I sleep.
I wake.
Bernard—he of the bright scrubs and no-longer-kind eyes—arrives with lunch and more pills. Because I’m too dazed to eat, he uses pillows to prop me up like a rag doll and spoon feeds me soup, rice pudding, and what I think is creamed spinach.
The drugs have made me oddly chatty. “Where are you from?” I say, slurring my words like someone who’s had one too many drinks.
“You don’t need to know that.”
“I know I don’tneedto. Iwantto.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” he says.
“At least tell me who you’re doing this for.”
“You need to stop talking.”
Bernard shovels more pudding into my mouth, hoping it will shut me up. It does only for as long as it takes me to swallow.
“You’re doing it for someone,” I say. “That’s why you’re here and not at, like, a regular hospital, right? They promised to help someone you love if you work for them? Like Charlie’s doing?”
I’m given another mouthful of pudding. Rather than swallow, I let it drip from my lips, talking all the while.
“You can tell me,” I say. “I won’t judge you. When my mother was dying, I would have done anything to save her life.Anything.”