Chapter 19 Diane
Diane
By late afternoon, my earlier conversation with Cassie is still lingering in my mind. Fortunately, Sara has invited me over to her place, leaving me a chance to escape from the remnants of my thoughts.
She is waiting for me on the back porch, a glass of sweet tea in her good hand.
I’ve been so busy lately with the novel and Cassie that I haven’t noticed how much Sara has changed.
Her hair, once thick, now carries a wispiness that speaks of the worsening of her condition.
And that’s not all. Even her gait, once agile and sprightly, has slowed down to a measured shuffle.
Inside, the house carries the scent of old books and years of memories.
There are photos on every wall now, some of her kids, some in caps and gowns, some clutching fish almost as big as their bodies.
On the piano sits a faded wedding portrait, Sara in bell sleeves and a crown of wild daisies, Andrew standing behind her with his hand barely resting on her shoulder, both of them squinting into the sun.
There are books everywhere, whole driftwood shelves of them, and a wall calendar with every square marked in her loopy script.
Doctor’s appointments, bridge club, SHELL SALE!
!!, Cassie’s birthday circled three times in red.
Sara lowers herself into the living room armchair, breathing a little heavier.
“If you want to see the only decent picture of Andrew,” she says, “it’s over there.
” She points to the mantel, where a single five-by-seven stands alone, framed in rough slate.
I cross to it and pick it up. He’s older here than in the wedding photo, his hair gone white, but the eyes are the same.
I imagine the voice that went with them, the clever retorts, the dry jokes.
I understand immediately how a person could fall in love with a face like this and know too well how hard it must have been to let it go.
When I turn back, Sara is trying to stand. Her hands grip the armrests, knuckles white with effort. I set the photo down and hurry to her side, but she’s already up, swaying a little.
“I’m fine,” she insists, but I see the panic flash in her eyes, just for a second, before the mask drops back into place. She takes a halting step, then another, before her knees buckle and she sinks back into the chair, breathing hard.
I kneel in front of her, afraid to touch but unable to look away. “Should I call someone?”
Sara shakes her head, fiercely. “No. Just…give me a minute.” Her voice is brittle, almost angry, but I stay where I am, feeling helpless and intrusive and terrified all at once.
We stay like that, the only sounds the whir of a distant ceiling fan and the slow, deliberate count of her breaths. After a few minutes, the color returns to her face, and her jaw unclenches.
“I’m supposed to be the wise old crone,” she says, a grim smile forcing itself up. “Not the tragic hero.”
“You can be both,” I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice.
She laughs, a thin thread of sound, but it seems to help. “Do me a favor?” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen.
“Anything.”
“Could you water the succulents on the sill? I always forget.”
I do, and as the tap runs and the glass fills, I spot the evidence I’ve been looking for—a neat row of prescription bottles on the counter, one of them already tipped and rolling slowly against the backsplash.
I right it, read the label—something I can’t pronounce—but the warning stickers are all the same: MAY CAUSE DIZZINESS, TAKE WITH FOOD, CAUTION OPERATING HEAVY MACHINERY.
I set it gently back in line, wondering if the pills are helping or just slowing her down, tamping the vital parts so she won’t suffer too much on the way out.
I bring the glass to the windowsill and pour it into the crowded jungle of aloe, jade, and some spindly cactus that seems to thrive on neglect. When I return to the living room, Sara has managed to shift from chair to couch, a feat of willpower that makes me want to both applaud and cry.
She pats the cushion beside her. “Sit,” she commands, and I do, folding myself in at the edge.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” she says. “I’ve been putting it off because I hate the idea of burdening anyone, but it’s getting harder. The day-to-day stuff.” She stares at her hands, as if they belong to someone else.
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I know you’re dealing with your own mess. I just… If you could come by, now and then… Help with groceries, or maybe driving me to an appointment. It wouldn’t be forever… Just until Judy arrives, and after that…who knows.” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite land.
I cover her hand with mine. “I’d be glad to help. It’s the least I can do after all your kindness.” I give her hand a slight squeeze, and she relaxes.
For a long time, we just sit there, the physical contact solid and anchoring. I can feel the tremor through her palm, the way it never quite stops, even in rest.
“Thank you,” she says, and I realize how little she’s used to needing anyone.
When the clock in the hallway chimes seven, I move to stand, but Sara holds my wrist for a second longer.
“One last thing.” She reaches down beside the couch and produces a small, well-worn paperback.
It’s a book of poetry, the spine cracked and the cover worn soft as cloth.
“Andrew gave me this the week before he proposed. He said I should read it cover to cover, then mark the lines I thought were true, and he’d do the same.
When we finished, we’d compare. If we had enough in common, we’d get married.
” She grins, the mischief back. “He proposed anyway, the coward, but I still have the book.”
She presses it into my hands, urgent. “Maybe the marked lines will help. For the writing. Or for whatever comes next.”
I turn the book over, touched by the worn fingerprints on the cover, the edges soft with years of handling. “Are you sure? This looks irreplaceable.”
She shrugs. “Things aren’t meant to last, dear. Neither are people. But stories, they’re different. They survive. That’s the only afterlife I believe in.”
I help Sara to her feet, and this time she doesn’t refuse, leaning into me as we cross the room, the poetry book pressed between our bodies like a shared secret.
At the door, she steadies herself, then lets go. “You’re stronger than you think,” she says. “You just need practice.”
“Isn’t that true of everyone?” I reply, the book of poetry tucked under my arm.
Sara smiles, a little sad, a little proud. “Not everyone tries.”
I leave her standing in the doorway, backlit and unbowed, the queen of her seaside kingdom. The walk home is silent except for the call of gulls and the faint, persistent ache of being seen.
In the guest cottage, I put the poetry book on the table and stare at it for a long time, afraid to open it, afraid of what I might find in the margins.
Eventually I do, and the first page is covered in Andrew’s handwriting, all sharp angles and unnecessary flourishes.
There’s a line, starred and underlined twice: Only the present is real. Only the present can be saved.
I sit there, the evening thick with the scent of wet grass and salt, the book open on my knees, the notebook beside it. I wait, counting the seconds, not for permission this time, but for the feeling that tells me I’m finally ready.
And when it comes, I pick up my pen, and I begin.