Page 144 - My FlipBook

L IS A J. L A W R E N C E

swatted mosquitoes, sunburned red rings around their necks—
all an elaborate dream. An implanted memory. It would always
be February.
When Greta didn’t respond, he added, “Eleanor and I
liked to put in the garden early. I could never talk her into
waiting until after the May long weekend.”
Maybe Elgin did feel it, a gradual shift every day. It
comforted her.

Then he said, “Since Eleanor left us, I don’t sleep well at
night.”
Left us. She’ll be right back. Greta nodded. “Did Alice tell
you we lost our mom to breast cancer too?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” His voice barely made it past the fern
leaves on the end table between them.
They sat without speaking for several minutes, watching ADVANCE READING COPY

a few chiseled flakes pass through the circle of porch light.
“For me,” Greta said, “it’s not so much the sleeping as the
waking.” Her heart and breath had slowed to normal now, her
brain processing thoughts again. Elgin hadn’t even turned in
her direction.
“Yes, the waking.” He knew. “For one blessed moment,”
he said, “you’re a blank slate. Then your mind looks around,
bends over and picks up that bag of misery to carry around
another day.”

Bag of misery. That daily three-second shift from peace to
distress.
“And willing the mind not to only makes it happen faster,”
he added. “It runs, in that case.”

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