Chapter 20
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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 just know what’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’t have 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 Thursday afternoon . 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 I am being 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 is good 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.”
“Millicent.” Hollis’s voice is filled with so much pity that it tears apart my sorrow and repairs it with anger.
I push him away. “No! This isn’t the first time she’s done this, you know. She isn’t actually dead. We just need to find her. I found her before, I can find her again—”
“Mill, she’s gone. I’m sorry, but she’s really gone.”
I’m rewrapped in Hollis’s arms, his hand on the back of my head. I know deep inside that he’s right, and my shoulders heave with every sob.
“I’m going to put you into the car, and then I’m going to go back inside. Will you be all right for a minute?”
I don’t understand why Hollis is going back in there, what he hopes to accomplish. We’re too late. And I would have been too late even if everything had gone according to plan. I never even had a chance, did I?
I give a weak nod as I’m guided into the passenger seat, and Hollis drops my little leather backpack onto my lap. “I’ll leave you two to chat,” he says in a way that sounds like he’s surprised he doesn’t find that statement absurd. He squeezes my knee before closing the door.
It’s good that he left, because I’m becoming aware of how much of a wreck I am, and oh no, it’s mortifying.
He had to carry me out of there. I’m sure The Palms at Southernmost has seen its share of grieving friends and family, but something tells me the residents and staff are going to be talking about the hysterical little redhead for weeks to come.
“Oh, Mrs. Nash. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I made such a scene. I know I have no right to be so upset that she’s gone—I never even met Elsie—but...” I choke back another sob. “I really wanted to. And more than that, I needed to do this for you. I failed. I failed you.”
I know Mrs. Nash wouldn’t have blamed me.
Ninety-eight years on Earth means you lose a lot of people you love very much; she outlived a husband, a son, her parents, most of her siblings, countless friends, and—she believed—Elsie.
She understood better than most that death doesn’t care about things like flight schedules.
But knowing that doesn’t mean I can make myself believe it right now.
Hollis returns to the car sometime later to find me half-asleep, clutching my backpack to my chest.
He leans over to press a kiss to my temple, then brushes my hair behind my ear with his thumb and plants another, feather-light, on the edge of my plum-and-gold bruise.
“Let’s go to the hotel,” he says. His over-the-top sweetness feels too much like pity—a reminder of my failure—and it makes me want to start crying all over again.
The hotel—which was extremely accommodating each of the three times I called to change my reservation while we were on the road—isn’t far from The Palms at Southernmost. Before I know it, I’m standing red-faced and swollen-eyed in front of a large, whitewashed check-in desk while Hollis takes care of everything.
How would I have managed this if he weren’t with me? I want to believe I would have done all right alone. I am a competent adult woman who can handle whatever life throws at me. But I’m so glad I don’t have to prove it right now.
In our hotel room, I sit on the edge of the bed in a sort of here-but-not-really state, vaguely aware of the sound of running water in the bathroom. Time stretches and contracts, and I’m unsure how much of it has passed when Hollis appears again, kneeling in front of me.
“Bath’s ready,” he says. “Let’s get you out of your clothes, okay?”
I manage a nod but don’t have the energy for much else.
Hollis removes my sandals first, and presses a light kiss to my ankle before taking off my shirt, shorts, bra, and underwear while whispering requests to hold up my arms, lift my hips, stand.
His touch is gentle and warm, intimate without demanding anything.
That’s how he washes me too; the way he runs the washcloth over my skin is thorough without feeling clinical, caressing without veering into sexual.
At some point, his sweetness stops rubbing me the wrong way, no longer seeming forced or pitying but like a secret part of him I’ve unlocked. I feel cared for. Adored.
Reuniting Elsie and Mrs. Nash was supposed to remind me that love can last a lifetime.
That forever is a possibility for me too, if I only keep believing.
But when Hollis wraps me in one of the fluffy white robes on the back of the bathroom door, leads me to the bed, and cocoons me in his arms, I suddenly understand that forever isn’t the part that I almost lost faith in.
It was the millions of right-nows along the way.