I’ve spoken to Louise Johnson a handful of times since Monica shot herself. She and Monica’s father agreed to take Monica home when it was clear she wasn’t going to get any better. I’m surprised they did it, after all she put them through when she was growing up. They seemed like nice people, and against my better judgment, Sam offered to let them visit David from time to time. But Mrs. Johnson told me kindly but firmly that they weren’t interested. I was relieved.

I wonder what she wants. I wonder if Monica’s okay.

What if she woke up? What if she opened her eyes, sat up in bed, and demanded to see her son?

Well, that’s very unlikely. They told me Monica would never wake up. No chance, the doctors said.

But you never know…

By the time Louise Johnson rings our doorbell, I’ve worked myself into a state of absolute panic. I fling the door open and find her familiar face, with several more gray hairs than before and deep lines between her eyebrows. It must be hard caring for Monica.

“Hello, Mrs. Johnson,” I say, as calmly as I can muster.

“Hello, Mrs. Adler,” she replies.

Apparently, we’re not on a first-name basis.

“How are you?” I ask stiffly.

“Fine, thank you.” She manages the thinnest of smiles. “And you?”

“I’m well.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “How is, um… how is Monica?”

“The same.” She averts her eyes. “No change.”

Is it awful that my first thought is “thank God”? Am I a terrible person for not wanting the woman who nearly killed my entire family to be walking around again? It’s a relief that Monica Johnson is one thing we won’t have to worry about anymore.

But then she adds, “Except…”

My heart skips a beat in my chest. Except? Except what? Monica is in a vegetative state. They told us it was permanent. That she would never, ever wake up. She is “as good as dead,” the doctors said. Except what?

I clear my throat. “Except what?”

“Oh.” She seems surprised by my question. She shakes her head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Nothing? Never mind? I want to shake the woman until she tells me exactly what she meant by “except,” but I somehow manage to get control of myself before I do something stupid.

“So, listen…” Mrs. Johnson lowers her eyes and starts rummaging around in her purse. I flinch, remembering the way Monica pulled a gun from her purse the last time she was here. But Mrs. Johnson isn’t like that—I have nothing to worry about. Although I don’t relax until she retrieves a small, frayed yellow blanket from within the purse. “I was going through some old boxes at the back of the closet yesterday and I found… well, this was there. It was… it used to belong to Monica.”