Good As Dead

Chapter Ten

Only when my hand is on the door knob do I realize Elliot might be on the other side. I did say we'd talk before school. Maybe he took that to mean coming to my house. Oh, what the hell. My world's gone to hell anyway; what's one more explosion?

But when I open the door, Mrs. Kent stands there. "Good, you're here. Didn't see your car in the driveway, so I wasn't sure. Don't worry, I won't stay. Just wanted to drop off this casserole pan."

As I numbly reach for it, she takes in my appearance. "Oh, sweetie." She puts an arm around my shoulders, and Fuel crawls down until it settles around the back of my neck. "She's at her end, isn't she?"

Clutching the pan to me like a shield, I say, "The hospice nurse who came said she could last maybe days, maybe just a few more hours."

"Did she say you need to turn her?"

I nod.

"Did she tell you how to do that with an unconscious patient?"

I wince. "Not really."

She heaves a disgusted sigh and walks in with me. "Of course not. You." She points at Gideon, who's trying to unobtrusively slip out from the hallway.

He freezes. "I'm sorry?"

"I hope you're used to doing more with those muscles than filling out your clothes. Get back here and help us turn her."

Gran's never been a big woman, and her illness took most of her weight with it, but there's something nerve-wracking about handling a slack body so fragile that a clumsy grip can leave bruises. It takes all three of us to turn her onto her left side, Mrs. Kent explaining to Gran what we're doing as if she's still responsive. At one point, I'm not sure if my body or Gran's will snap first from the strain. I don't think Gideon notices how much I'm struggling, but Mrs. Kent does, giving me a sharp look as she puts pillows between Gran's knees and ankles.

"To keep her bones from rubbing," she says, glancing between me and Gideon to make sure we get it. "Next turn will be on her back, and then on her right side. Then back on her back, and so on. Just cycle through like that. You might want to tie string or ribbon—loosely, mind—around the ankle of the last side she was on to keep from forgetting."

Then she bends over Gran and murmurs something low enough that only they can hear it. I think she's saying goodbye. My throat closes up, and I quickly turn away, gaze darting around for something to help me ignore all this fear welling up. My eyes find Gideon's. Shit, that's even worse, because I still don't know what the hell happened back in the laundry room. Why he froze me out like that.

I glance away, but still sense him moving closer. Despite myself, I look at him again, taking in his grim expression, how he obviously wants to tell me something. "Phoenix," he says, voice a low murmur, "I—" Then he breaks off, frustration flashing across his face as Mrs. Kent approaches us.

She pats my shoulder and says, "I don't think it'll be too long before she goes, so you better say whatever you want to her now. Mr. Kingsman, let's give her a minute."

Gideon doesn't get a chance to say anything before she ushers him through the doorway, but he does manage a final glance in my direction. I can't begin to figure out how I'm supposed to read it. Fuel, still wrapped around the back of my neck, makes a chiming sound and gives my hair a quick preen. Then it takes flight, following Mrs. Kent and Gideon as they head for the front door. I slump back on the bench by Gran.

For a while, I can only sit and wonder what to say. The hospice support pamphlets for this stage suggest telling loved ones goodbye, and that their friends and family left behind will be all right. But they also show pictures of well-dressed family members surrounding the calm patient's bed in a sunlit room. I'm sweaty and disheveled from moving her, the sun through the window is blazing hot, and while Gran may be quiet, she doesn't appear peaceful. Her lower jaw has fallen open in what looks like a silent scream, and her breath gurgles in her throat. Each minute, her body appears a little more wasted away, and I can smell her flesh breaking down. It's all a far cry from a picture-perfect goodbye, but I lean forward and clasp her hand, and try my best.