Chapter 30 Marnie
MARNIE
The call comes two days after the team dinner.
I’m at work, documenting Rodriguez’s latest PT session with the kind of meticulous detail that’s become second nature since Winters started watching, when my phone rings.
My stomach drops when I see the hospice facility number.
“Ms. Walker? Your mother’s taken a turn. Her vitals are declining and—” The nurse pauses. “You should come now if you want to be with her.”
The world tilts.
“I’m on my way.”
I’m in my car before I fully process moving. My hands shake on the steering wheel and I have to pull over twice because I can’t see through the tears.
This is it. This is the call I’ve been dreading for months.
I text Roman with trembling fingers.
Mom’s declining. Hospice called. I’m heading there now.
Roman
I’m coming. Don’t argue.
I don’t have the energy to argue. Don’t have the energy for anything except driving and trying to breathe and bargaining with a god I don’t believe in for just one more day.
Teresa’s in the hallway when I arrive, her face telling me everything before she says a word.
“How long?” I ask.
“She started declining around noon. Breathing’s more labored. She’s been in and out of consciousness.” Teresa touches my arm. “She had a lucid moment about an hour ago. Asked for you.”
The guilt hits like a freight train.
I was at work documenting PT sessions while Mom was asking for me. While she was dying and I wasn’t there.
“Go,” Teresa says gently. “She’s waiting.”
Mom’s in the hospital bed, breathing shallow and irregular, each inhale sounding like work.
Her eyes are closed, face drawn in a way that makes her look decades older than she is.
I take the chair beside her bed and reach for her hand. It’s cool and fragile, bones sharp under papery skin.
“Mom? It’s Marnie. I’m here.”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first. Then they find my face and something clears.
“Marnie.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “You came.”
“Of course I came.” I squeeze her hand gently. “I’m right here.”
“Good.” A weak smile. “Didn’t want to... without you.”
The words crack something in my chest.
“Don’t talk like that. You’re okay. You’re—”
“I’m dying, baby. We both know it. No point... pretending.”
I press my lips together, trying not to cry. Not yet. She needs me to be strong right now.
“The hockey player,” she says after a moment. “Roman. He’s... good?”
“Yeah, Mom. He’s really good.”
“Good.” Her eyes drift closed, then open again with effort. “I’m proud of you. So proud. You know that?”
“I know.”
“Your father... would be too.” A tear slides down her cheek. “I love you. So much.”
“I love you too, Mom.” My voice breaks. “So, so much.”
She squeezes my hand—barely any pressure, but I feel it.
“Don’t be alone. Promise me. Don’t push people away because you’re scared.”
“I won’t.”
“Liar.” But she’s smiling slightly. “You’re just like me. Stubborn. Independent. Scared of needing people.” Her breathing gets more labored. “But Roman... he’s good. Let him stay.”
“I will. I promise.”
“That’s my girl.” Her eyes close again. “So tired...”
“Rest, Mom. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She drifts off, and I sit there holding her hand and counting her breaths like I have for months.
Bargaining for just one more. Just one more. Just one more.
Roman arrives twenty minutes later, still in practice clothes, hair damp.
He takes one look at me and understands. Pulls up the other chair and sits beside me, doesn’t ask stupid questions or offer empty platitudes.
Just sits there, solid and present, his hand finding mine.
“How long?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know. Hours maybe. Teresa said she’s been declining since noon.”
He nods. Doesn’t say it’ll be okay because we both know it won’t be. Just sits with me while we wait.
Mom wakes once more around six. Her eyes find Roman and something like recognition flickers.
“The hockey player,” she murmurs.
“Yes ma’am,” Roman says, leaning forward so she can see him better.
“You’ll be... good to her?”
“I promise.”
“Better be... more than a promise.” But there’s a ghost of humor in her voice. “I’ll haunt you... if you’re not.”
“I’ll hold him to it,” I say, trying to smile through my tears.
Mom looks at me, really looks at me, and I see my mother—not the confused, fading version of the past months, but her. Clear and present and here.
“You’re beautiful... when you smile,” she says.
Then her eyes close and she slips away again, breathing getting shallower.
The hospice nurse comes in, checks vitals, gives me that look.
“It won’t be long now,” she says gently. “Talk to her. She can still hear you.”
So I do.
I tell Mom I love her. Tell her it’s okay to go, that she doesn’t have to hold on for me anymore. Tell her I’ll be okay even though I’m lying through my teeth.
Roman’s hand never leaves mine.
Her breathing changes around midnight.
Longer pauses between each breath.
Teresa comes back and takes Mom’s other hand.
We wait.
It happens at almost 3 in the morning.
Mom takes a breath. Long and slow. Lets it out and doesn’t take another.
The silence is deafening.
I wait—five seconds, ten, fifteen—for her chest to rise. For the next breath. For some sign this isn’t it.
It doesn’t come.
The nurse comes in, turns off the machines, checks for a pulse we all know isn’t there.
“I’m so sorry,” she says gently. “She’s gone.”
And just like that, my mother is dead.
I don’t cry. Don’t scream. Just sit there staring at her still face, holding her hand, trying to understand how she can be gone when she’s right here in front of me.
Teresa’s crying quietly. The sound breaks through the numbness.
She hugs me—this woman who spent months caring for my mother—and whispers, “She loved you so much.”
I nod because I can’t speak.
Teresa leaves after a while, and then it’s just me and Roman and the body that used to be my mother.
The hospice staff is kind. They ask gentle questions I can barely process. Do I have a funeral home in mind? Do I need them to call anyone? Do I want a few more minutes?
Minutes. Like minutes will make a difference.
But I take them. Sit beside her and hold her hand and try to memorize everything one more time even though there’s nothing left to memorize.
Somehow we end up at Roman’s apartment.
I don’t remember the drive, don’t remember anything until I’m sitting on the edge of his bed and he’s kneeling in front of me.
“You should sleep,” he says gently.
“I can’t.” My voice sounds mechanical. “If I sleep, when I wake up it’ll be real.”
“It’s already real, Moxie.” He sits beside me on the bed. “When Matty died, I didn’t sleep for three days. Thought if I stayed awake, I could somehow rewind time. Go back to that phone call I didn’t answer.”
I take a shaky breath. “The call?”
“He called the night before. I was at a team dinner and sent it to voicemail.” His voice breaks. “Next morning they called to say he was gone.”
“Oh, Roman.”
“So yeah, I get not wanting to sleep. Because waking up means remembering all over again.”
“How did you... how did you survive it?”
“Honestly? I didn’t. Not for a long time. I just kept moving. Kept playing hockey. Kept pretending I was fine until December 29th every year when I’d fall apart.” He looks at me. “This is the first year I won’t be alone for it. Because of you.”
His hands grasp the hem of my shirt and he tugs. “Arms up.”
I lift my arms and he pulls the shirt over my head.
Then he stops and stares at my ribs. At the tattoo I usually keep hidden, that he’s seen but we’ve always been occupied with other things for him to really stop and read.
“’So dance alone to the beat of your heart,’” he reads quietly, fingers hovering over the words. “Marnie—”
“It’s from a song. About being alone.” I can’t look at him. “I got it after my dad died. When I realized it would be just Mom and me. That I’d probably always be the person dancing alone because no one stays.” My voice breaks. “Everyone leaves eventually.”
His hand settles over the tattoo, warm against my ribs.
“I know that feeling. After Matty died, I told myself the same thing. That loving people meant losing them. That being alone was safer.”
I look at him. “What changed?”
“You did.” His voice is rough. “You crashed into my life and made me realize—being alone isn’t safer. It’s just lonelier.”
“My dad died. Now my mom.” Tears are streaming down my face. “You’re here for now but—”
“Marnie. Look at me.”
I do.
“You’re not alone,” he says firmly. “I’m here. I love you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he leans forward and presses his lips to my ribs. Right over the tattoo. Right over the words about dancing alone.
“You’re not alone,” he says against my skin. “Not anymore.”
It destroys me.
All the crying I couldn’t do in the hospice room comes now. Ugly, gasping sobs that shake my whole body.
Roman pulls me against his chest and just holds me. Lets me soak his shirt with tears and grief.
“She’s really gone,” I sob. “And I don’t think I can keep going in a world without her.”
“You don’t have to know yet. You just have to get through tonight.” His hand strokes down my back. “Tomorrow we’ll figure out tomorrow.”
“What if I can’t do this?”
“Then I’ll help you.” He pulls back to look at me. “You’re not dancing alone anymore, Moxie. You’ve got me. For as long as you want me.”
“Forever,” I whisper. “I want you forever.”
“Then that’s what you get.”
He helps me into one of his t-shirts. Tucks me into his bed like I’m something precious. Lies down beside me and pulls me against his chest.
“Sleep,” he says softly. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
I fall asleep with my head on his chest, Mom’s wedding ring warm on my thumb where I slipped it earlier, his hand covering the tattoo on my ribs.
The one that says I’m alone.
Except I’m not anymore.
And somehow, even with the grief crushing my chest, even with the knowledge that everything has changed—
That’s enough to let me close my eyes.