Chapter 15 - Morning Through Glass
The light came first through the blinds. Thin lines across Rose's blanket. I had been half asleep with my cheek on the edge of the mattress, and when I lifted my head my ponytail stuck to my neck.
Mom was still in the plastic chair on the other side. Her beige blouse was wrinkled where she'd leaned forward all night. Dad stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. His dark blue shirt from days ago was gone. He wore a gray one the nurse had found in the lost and found. He hadn't shaved and the stubble was darker.
No one had turned the monitors back on. After yesterday, when they'd switched everything to comfort, the room stayed quiet except for breathing and the heat clicking on. A nurse came in around six and checked Rose's hand and nodded at Mom. She didn't say anything. She just adjusted the light blanket and left.
I moved my stool closer and put my head back down near Rose's hand, the way I'd done in her bedroom that first morning. Her fingers were cool. Her satin pajamas were gone, replaced by the hospital gown, but Mom had folded the top with the burgundy trim and set it on the windowsill. I could see it from where I lay.
For a while we just stayed like that. Dad's thumb moved small circles on Mom's shoulder. Mom watched Rose's face without blinking.
Then Rose's breathing changed. It got farther apart. I counted without meaning to. In. A long pause. Out. A longer pause.
Mom stood up so fast her chair scraped. "Mom?" she said.
Dad stepped in beside her. He didn't look shocked like that morning in the bedroom. His eyes were red and steady. He put one arm around Mom's waist.
Rose breathed in once, shallow, and then she didn't breathe out in the same way. Her hand stayed still under mine. The lines of light moved a little higher on the blanket.
The nurse came back with another woman and they listened and looked at each other. The older one touched Mom's arm. "She's gone," she said softly. "Peacefully. Just now."
Mom made a sound I hadn't heard from her all week. Not the tight gasp by the glass doors or the controlled voice in the hallway. It broke open in her chest. She bent over the bed and cried with her mouth open, her long hair falling forward over Rose's shoulder. Her gold necklaces swung and caught the light.
Dad held her from behind, both arms around her, his chin on top of her head. He didn't tell her to be quiet. He just held on and his own face crumpled. "I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."
I kept my head where it was for a minute. I could feel Rose's knuckles under my forehead, the skin thin like paper. I thought about all the things I hadn't said because I'd been waiting for her to wake up and answer.
I lifted my head and touched her hand with both of mine.
"Bye, Grandma," I said. My voice sounded small in the quiet room. "Thank you for letting me lay with you."
Mom looked up through tears and reached across Rose to grab my hand. Her fingers were warm and shaking. Dad put his other hand on my back. We stayed like that while the light got brighter, the three of us around her, and for the first time the silence didn't feel like something was wrong. It felt like she'd chosen it.
Later, after the papers and the woman who asked gentle questions, we drove home. The sun was full up over the county road. Dad drove slow. Mom sat with Rose's folded pajama top in her lap, smoothing the burgundy trim with her thumb over and over.
At the house, the upstairs bedroom was exactly how we'd left it that morning. Light bedding pulled back. The armchair by the balcony. The dark wooden door open. Dust in the sunlight by the sheer curtains.
Mom went straight to the bed and laid the pajama top on the pillow. Then she pulled the sliding doors open all the way. The curtains lifted with the morning air. Dad stood in the doorway watching us.
May you like
I climbed up and lay on my side with my head near where Rose's hand had been. The sheets smelled like laundry and faint lotion.
Mom sat beside me and didn't tell me to get up. Dad came and sat on the other side. None of us closed the doors.
