“Tell him I’ll be waiting here.”

“Goodbye, Tom.”

I walk back through the house. When I get to my car, I can see our packed bags in the back seat. The trees droop down low over the lane in the dark, and the headlights shine on the autumn leaves that coat the drive.

Driving through Nysa at night, I realize memories are heavy things, heavier still when we don’t let them go. Everything feels like a dream, and all I can think about is you lying motionless in your hospital bed and the image I have of Mary with silver streaks in her hair, standing on some far green bank, looking out over a glassy sea.

The Nesting Doll

This particular hospital where you are staying is small, and the lady working at the front desk glances up when I walk through the doors, then waves me on. I’m carrying the bag I packed when we left home to go to Nysa, the bag Tom had filled with our things and put in the back of my car. It feels like decades since you and I made that drive from the city to Nysa, but it hasn’t even been two weeks, apparently. Time is something I’m not entirely convinced I can trust at this point in my life.

“Oh, Mr. Elias?” the woman at the front desk calls after me in her singsong voice.

I turn around and raise my eyebrows but don’t say anything.

“Your daughter is so beautiful. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. She’s my granddaughter.”

“Well, she’s clearly a very special girl. I hope things turn out well.”

I nod and turn away, then walk seven or eight rooms down the hallway to your door. Somehow Tom’s confession has washed over me and left me strangely at peace. His words, in some ways, give me that satisfactory feeling of the last puzzle piece fitting in place.

And there are still your words as well. The story you told me, the vision you had of Mary and Shirley and the house beyond the sea. I don’t know what to think about it, besides sadness that I could not keep you from doing this thing.

I go into your room and set my bag down at the back, beside the window, before returning to the side of your bed. I can’t help but cry a little as I stand there, your limp body completely still, tubes going in your nose, a machine breathing for you while other machines chart your journey with beeps and dashes and numbers I can’t possibly understand.

I don’t know how long I stand there, tracing the lines of your hair, the perfection of your nose and mouth, the gracefulness of your closed eyes. I turn and arrange the chair against the far wall so that I can see you and also lean my head against the wall while I drift off. I unzip my bag, searching for a warmer shirt, and I notice a few things.