Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
“. . . and then we came back here. Primarily because I don’t have one fucking clue about how to proceed. Dad? I dropped an F-bomb. It’s out there. The F-bomb is out there. Better wake up and lecture me on how profanity is a sign of limited intellect, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well, it is,” Hilly said, entering Death’s sickroom with a tray.
Amara was more than a little amazed the tray was laden with washcloths, not food.
“But you’re an exception to the rule. Remember when you took every vocab-building exercise you could find, and memorized the seven words you can’t say on TV? In ten languages?”
“No, that doesn’t sound like me at all, you puttana marcia.”
Hilly flapped a hand at her in a ‘get out of here with that’ motion. “How are you holding up, my darling?”
“About as well as a tower made of toothpicks. You?”
“That covers my situation as well.” She set the tray on the nearby end table, grabbed a cloth, disappeared into the bathroom, returned with the washcloth dripping. “But we prevail.”
“You should cross-stitch that onto a pillow.”
“I have.”
Amara snorted as Hilly folded back Death’s bedcovers and began washing his face.
“No change, obvs.”
“‘Obvs’? Is it that much more difficult to pronounce the entire word?”
“Fair,” Amara admitted. “That’s what happens when I’m around Gray for too long.”
“Where is he? Does he want a snack?”
“If he does, he’s covered. You can’t take two steps into the kitchen without being caught in a blizzard of snacks. And if you smoke another turkey, Mother, I swear to all the gods . . .”
“There can always be more snacks,” her mother said, because she was sweet and clinically insane.
“He went to the library to do more reading and fell asleep in there. We—he didn’t get much sleep last night, so I left him snoozing and came to talk to Dad. Well. Talk at Dad.”
“All right. To answer your question, there are no changes, but only in his case. It would seem everyone but Death is changing.”
“Tell me about it. Mom, this might sound like another odd question—”
“I’ll be the judge of that, dear.”
“—but did you ever go with Dad on Reaps?”
Hilly paused in midscrub and straightened. “You were right. That was an odd question.” She tilted her head, studying Amara, and they both let several seconds go by. “And the answer is, as you must know, of course not.”
“I figured.”
“Death has his territories and responsibilities, as I have mine. What’s the saying? ‘Ne’er the twain shall meet’? Something like that.”
“Close enough.” Amara watched her mother work, and did not offer to help roll Death so she could scrub his back.
Partly because, hey! She was helping plenty.
And also because Hilly could have hoisted Death out of his bed, carried him downstairs, and then jogged with him for the better part of a mile.
“You have separate fiefdoms. You always have.”
“Dare I ask why you dare ask?”
Amara scooched the chair closer to the bed and thought how best to answer. “You know Gray’s been Reaping with me.”
“Yes, to our surprise and pleasure. Not only did you show up when summoned—”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m not that bad. Obviously I would have come home. Um. Eventually. Within a week at most, depending on how my new job at the RV park was going. Those garbage bins won’t empty themselves, Mother. I have to call to get someone to do it.”
“—you immediately dove in and seem bent on smashing any norms in your path. The only surprise is that we’re surprised.”
“Yes, yes, I’m a grumpy rebel and always have been. They can see Gray, Mom.”
“Beg pardon?”
“The ones about to die answer Gray when he talks to them because they can see and hear him. Except he can get in anywhere, like me, so in that respect, they can’t see or hear him. He even pointed out how we walked past any number of armed airmen and neither of us were hassled, or even stopped.”
Hilly straightened and rubbed the small of her back. “What are you saying?”
“Why is my best friend Death’s appendage? Why is he enjoying the same shield I am?”
“Oh, Amara.” Hilly’s expression was typical of mothers everywhere: equal parts exasperation and adoration. “When will you outgrow the need to ask questions you’ve answered yourself?”
She sighed. “I was afraid of that. Your truth and your nonanswer. Here’s the other oddity: I couldn’t find everyone on the scrolls.”
Hilly, who had bent to resume Death’s bed bath, paused in midscrub. “I don’t—what?”
“There were people on the list I couldn’t find. They weren’t where they were supposed to be. Where the scroll said they would be. The infallible scroll that has never, ever been wrong even once throughout history.”
“But that’s—”
“Exactly.”
Hilly sat down, hard. Yikes. Thank goodness the chair was there. “It’s forbidden. It’s near impossible. And it’s unthinkable.”
“And yet.”
“Amara, Gray will die.”
“I’m aware.” She was, but she still nearly reared back at her mother’s bald statement. “And I get why you felt the need to reinforce that. Ouch, by the way.”
“Amara . . .”
“Because if people on the scroll are missing, that might be a loophole. It’s possible Gray could be one of them. Named but not Reaped. So there might be a way to save him.”
“Except it’s forbidden!” Hilly shrilled. She caught herself and got to her feet. “Forgive me, both for the outburst and the necessary reminder that the man you love will not live to see the summer solstice.”
“Ah, yes. The ‘sorry but it was necessary’ nonpology.”
“Tell me how he leaves this world.”
“This world.” Like there’s something out there, as opposed to the abyss.
“Aneurysm,” Amara replied shortly. “The brain damage sustained from years of child abuse combined with high blood pressure means that a chunk of his brain will pop like a balloon. They killed him. Those abusive psychopaths killed him when he was too little to fight back. It just took two decades to take effect.”
Hilly held out her arms, but Amara shook her head. “I’ve done enough crying all over you for one day.”
“Tomorrow, then,” her mother replied, and though it wasn’t especially funny, Amara laughed.