My blood flows slowly, thickly into first one then another of Dani’s collection tubes. She caps them off, pulls the needle from my arm, and pastes a Band-Aid on the spot, heaving a resigned sigh like a young mother who wishes she had put off having children.

As she labels the vials and readies to leave, Emme comes through the door, edging her sizable body past the cart.

“Good morning,” Emme says politely.

She wears a too-tight, yellow-embroidered cardigan over her uniform. I am embarrassed by the way I know Dani sees her. If only I could protect her from Dani’s superior figure and condescending gaze.

“Oh hey, what’s your name again?” Dani asks.

“Emme.”

“Right, like Emmy Lou Harris. Do you know if Mr. Haney has returned yet? I, uh, have some reading materials he requested.”

“Nope, I haven’t heard.”

Dani turns the cart and rattles toward the door. “Wonder if he knows the princess is back in the princess suite,” she says.

“I wonder,” Emme replies.

Emme shuts the door and lowers the blinds, turning my room a dusky violet. She takes Vaseline from the nightstand and swabs my chapped lips, concentrating on the corners of my mouth that stretch around the ventilator, then removes a tube of lotion from her pocket. I smell ginger and gardenia, the scent of Hawaii, of a lei once placed around my neck. It’s the scent of regret; not a shard, but a big, fat slab of regret. I had planned one day to find Mirabelle, one day, when I was older, settled, perhaps when I had children of my own. Now, it was too late.

I’d thought I would have more time.

Emme places a chair by my bed, pulls up the bottom of my sheet, and massages the cool lotion into my calves. I want to drift off, but I’m overcome with guilt and remorse and the dark dread of my mother soon to arrive at the side of my adjustable deathbed.

Of course, she might not show. There’s always that chance. Good ol’ dependable Merilee.

Emme works down my legs, massaging the soles of my feet and in between my toes. Once they were ticklish, but now I feel nothing but awareness of her ministrations. Coma-toes, I think, and Emme nickers softly as if she’s thought the same thing.

She re-tucks the sheets and moves up the bed, placing a hand under my pillow to steady my head while she gently massages my scalp line and temples. Emme’s hands are soft like an animal’s paws, claws retracted, drawn up inside puffy fur; the opposite of Anna’s, her bony, strong fingers, and long, painted nails.

My muscles start to relax. Finally, I drift, floating, dozing as Emme continues kneading her soft paws into my neck, and shoulders, arms, hands…

As I sail to sleep, I barely hear the click of the door closing softly behind her.