Chapter 16 | Heather
Heather
T he gentle touch on my shoulder felt like emerging from deep water, consciousness returning in waves that brought with it the familiar ache in my neck from sleeping in an uncomfortable position.
I'd been dreaming something warm and comforting that had slipped away the moment I opened my eyes, leaving behind only the lingering impression of safety and the disorientation that came with waking up somewhere other than my own bed.
"Heather," a soft voice called, and immediately I recognized the warm scent of melted marshmallows that could only belong to Dante. "Sorry to wake you, but I thought you might be hungry."
I blinked in the dim light filtering through Mom's bedroom window, trying to orient myself to a world that looked different than it had when I'd first sat down beside her bed hours ago.
The construction sounds that had provided a constant backdrop to the afternoon had stopped, leaving behind a quiet that felt both peaceful and somehow empty.
My body was stiff from sleeping curled in the hard wooden chair, and my mouth felt dry and sticky.
"What time is it?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I'd intended as I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus on Dante's face.
"Just after six," he replied, settling a tray on the small table beside Mom's bed with movements that were careful not to disturb her sleep. "The workers finished up about an hour ago, but we wanted to let you rest."
The smell that rose from the covered plate made my stomach clench with sudden, fierce hunger that reminded me I'd eaten very little since the risotto I'd shared with Mom earlier in the day.
Whatever Dante had prepared smelled rich and savory, with herbs that made my mouth water despite the emotional exhaustion that had been consuming my appetite for weeks.
From somewhere outside the room came the sound of children's laughter, bright and genuine in a way that made my chest tighten with relief.
I could hear Angus's distinctive Scottish accent rising above their voices, animated and theatrical in the way that suggested he was telling them some kind of elaborate story.
"And then," his voice carried through the thin walls, "the dragon realized he'd been brushing his teeth with a toilet brush the whole time, which explained why his breath had been getting worse instead of better!"
The explosion of giggles that followed made me smile despite everything.
"Angus!" Becky's voice cut through the laughter with the exasperated tone of someone who'd been trying to manage an unruly situation. "These children need to sit down and eat their dinner, not bounce around the kitchen like rubber balls!"
More laughter followed, but it was accompanied by the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and the general commotion that suggested the children were actually complying with Becky's instructions, even if they were doing so with considerable entertainment.
"I might not be helping with dinner," Angus protested. "But I'm providing cultural enrichment! Educational storytelling! Broadening their horizons with tales of Scottish folklore!"
"Scottish folklore does not include dragons with dental hygiene problems," Becky replied tartly, but I could hear the smile in her voice that suggested she wasn't actually annoyed. "Now sit down and eat before your food gets cold, and let these poor children do the same."
I grinned at the domestic scene playing out in our kitchen, at the easy way Becky had stepped into a maternal role with both the children and the grown man who was determined to entertain them whether or not she approved. It was the normal family chaos that our household had been missing.
"She's got her hands full," I observed quietly, glancing toward the door.
Dante chuckled, settling into the chair he'd pulled up beside mine. "Angus has that effect on people. He means well, but he has trouble remembering that not everyone appreciates his particular brand of enthusiasm."
I turned my attention to Mom, who was still sleeping peacefully, thanks to the morphine Cole had administered.
Her face looked relaxed, free from the lines of pain that had become so familiar I'd almost forgotten she could look any other way.
For a moment, watching her sleep so peacefully, it was almost possible to forget what Cole had told me about final goodbyes.
"How long has she been sleeping?" I asked, smoothing the blanket around her shoulders with hands that had grown steady through repetition.
"Since about an hour after Cole left," Dante replied, lifting the cover from the plate he'd brought. "He said the medication would help her rest more comfortably, and it seems to be working."
The food he'd prepared looked like something from a restaurant rather than our humble kitchen—some kind of pasta dish with vegetables that had been arranged with artistic precision, accompanied by bread that looked freshly baked and cheese that smelled expensive.
Everything about the presentation suggested care that went far beyond simple nutrition.
"This is too much," I protested, even as my stomach clenched with hunger that made it difficult to maintain any pretense of not wanting what he was offering.
"It's an old family recipe," Dante said, handing me a fork that looked like it had come from his restaurant rather than our mismatched collection of kitchen utensils.
"My grandmother's gnocchi with sage butter and roasted vegetables.
She used to make it whenever someone in the family was going through a difficult time. "
The first bite was a revelation—pillowy soft pasta that melted on my tongue, herbs that had been balanced with professional precision, vegetables that had been roasted until they were caramelized and sweet.
It was comfort food elevated to an art form, the meal that nourished both body and soul in ways I hadn't realized I needed.
"This is incredible," I said, unable to keep the wonder out of my voice as I took another bite. "I can't believe you made this in our kitchen."
"Your kitchen still has good bones," Dante replied, settling back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone who'd accomplished exactly what he'd set out to do. "It just needed someone who understood how to work with what was available."
As I ate, I found myself studying his face in the soft light from Mom's bedside lamp.
There was something peaceful about sharing this meal with him, something that felt both intimate and comfortable in ways I hadn't experienced since before Mom got sick.
His scent wrapped around me like a warm blanket, mixing with the herbs from the food and creating an atmosphere that felt safe despite everything that was happening.
"Tell me about your grandmother," I said, wanting to hear his voice, wanting to focus on something other than the steady rhythm of Mom's breathing and what Cole had said about the time we had left.
Dante's expression softened with memory, and I could see affection in the way he talked about family.
"Nonna Elena," he said with a smile that transformed his entire face.
"Barely five feet tall, but she could command a kitchen like a general commanding an army.
She believed that no problem was so big it couldn't be improved by a good meal shared with people who cared about you. "
I smiled. “I wish I could have met her; she sounds so sweet.”
He laughed. “Oh, she was anything but. She used to scare my cousins to death when she shouted, but not me. She always had a soft spot for me.”
I laughed and finished the last of the gnocchi, savoring the way the sage butter lingered on my tongue.
Dante leaned forward in his chair. "You should go see the children for a bit," he said softly, his dark eyes moving between my face and Mom's sleeping form.
"Stretch your legs, get some fresh air. You've been sitting in this chair for hours. "
I shook my head, the automatic refusal that had become my response to any suggestion that I leave Mom's side, but Dante reached out to cover my hand with his before I could voice the protest.
"I'll stay with her," he continued. "And I'll call you the moment she wakes up, the moment anything changes. But Heather..." He squeezed my fingers gently. "You can't take care of anyone else if you don't take care of yourself first."
The logic was sound, even if every instinct I possessed wanted to reject it. I'd been so focused on being present for every moment of Mom's consciousness, terrified that I might miss something important or that she might need me when I wasn't there.
"Just for a few minutes," I said finally, standing up with movements that felt stiff and uncertain. "And you'll really call me if—"
"The second anything changes," Dante promised, settling himself more comfortably in the chair I'd vacated. "Go. Listen to the children laugh. Remember that there's still joy in the world even when everything feels dark."
The hallway outside Mom's room felt longer than usual as I made my way toward the kitchen, my bare feet silent on floorboards that no longer creaked in quite the same places thanks to the day's repair work.
The sounds of dinner conversation grew louder as I approached, and I could hear the children's voices mixing with Becky's gentle corrections.
When I reached the kitchen doorway, I paused for a moment to take in the scene that greeted me. All the children were seated around our old table, their faces bright with contentment.
Loubie Lou looked up first, her one-eared rabbit propped in the chair beside her, and her face lit up with a smile that made something tight in my chest loosen completely.
"Miss Heather!" she announced, bouncing slightly in her seat. "Angus told us about a dragon who forgot how to breathe fire and had to learn how to breathe bubbles instead!"