“A lovely tune,” says the dean now. “What is that tune?”
“I can never remember the name,” I say. “I heard it on the radio last night.”
It’s true I did. When I drove Grace home. I’ll drive you home, shall I? I sang to Grace. After I reached out my hand, after I helped her to her feet. And she sort of caved into herself. She was in no shape at all to drive. The whole ride home, she sat slumped in the passenger seat, her face pressed into the passenger window, and how I could blame her? It was such a beautiful night. You can smell the ocean from here, can’t you, Grace? And look. Look at all those stars. Oh, I love this song. I heard it in the pub earlier. Do you know the name of this song, Grace? Do you mind if I turn up the radio?
Grace didn’t mind. Or didn’t seem to. It was one great hit after another all the way home. I sang along to all of them, my hands humming on the wheel.
Suddenly I seemed to know all the words. I could sing every song. Maybe I’d always known all the words. Maybe it was just a question of remembering. I looked over at Grace every now and then, in the passenger seat.
All right there? I said. Grace said nothing. Just tired probably. That time of year. It always nearly kills us, doesn’t it? But it never kills you. You’re unkillable, aren’t you? Not like me. You’ve seen me die a thousand deaths, haven’t you? Grace said nothing still. So very tired, perhaps.
So I said, Nearly home.
When we arrived at Grace’s house, I helped her to the front door. Grace, I said, let me help you. No resisting this time, no backing away. She was limp in my arms, her body so heavy. One step at a time, that’s it, Grace, I said, and I was patient. I said, We have all the time in the world. I led her through the tidy but drab living room to her weirdly frothy bedroom. I laid her gently on her bed of stone. I sat in the ornamental chair at her bedside. Just like Grace used to sit at my bedside when she visited after my shots. But unlike Grace, I didn’t check my phone. I didn’t flip through a magazine or grade essays, or pretend to read a script. I didn’t tap my foot like I had somewhere else to be. No, I sat with my elbows propped on the bed’s edge, with my chin in my palms, just watching Grace lie there on her side with her eyes half-open. Mouth-breathing. I gave her my absolute full attention. In case she needed anything. I even anticipated needs. Got her water, which she didn’t drink.
Are you sure, Grace? All right, well. I’ll leave it here just in case. All right?
Grace didn’t answer. Just looked at me.
You’re just tired, I said to Grace.
I’m tired too, I lied. I pretended to yawn so Grace wouldn’t feel alone in her fatigue. But the truth was I was brimming with oxygen, I was terribly awake. My eyes were wide open. I had a spring wind rushing through me, singing through me. Like I was the spring air itself. I felt my hair shining on my shoulders. I felt the whiteness of my teeth in the dark. I felt myself rising out of the chair. Levitating from the seat.
Can I get you anything else before I go? I asked, smiling, singing. Tea? How about a Throat Comfort? Or a Cozy Chamomile?
Grace didn’t want anything else. So I just sat there beside her a little longer. I looked deep down into the dark wells of her eyes, the irises the color of fox fur surrounding two ever-growing black pupils. I saw Grace peering up at me from the very bottom of that blackness. A blackness where I myself have languished, a blackness from which I have looked up at her how many times. Trying to speak. Trying to make myself understood.
I asked her if she was sure she didn’t need anything.
I asked again because sometimes, when you’re ill, you need things and you’re afraid to ask. Like I used to be. When Grace used to drop me off after a medical procedure or paid a visit, she’d call Need anything? from the front door she was already going out of, jangling her slipper key chain in her hand. I always said, Nothing, thanks. So when I asked Grace if she wanted anything, I didn’t jangle my keys, I wasn’t going out the door. When I asked her, I was inches from her face. My voice was a hand stroking her cheek. Just so she knew that she could ask me for anything. That I was happy to wait on her for once. I could wait on her all night.
Grace wanted me to go home. She didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. She just lay there on her side, breathing through her mouth with her eyes still open, still gazing at me from that black place, the very bottom of a place I know so well, I know every nook and shadow. I looked at Grace deep down in that place and I said, Sleep is all you need. And I tucked her in. I went into the living room and got Ernest, her bearded dragon, out of his tank. I was surprised again by the drab sight of Grace’s living room. Her hiking paraphernalia everywhere. Recipes for post-workout recovery snacks pinned to a corkboard. The smell of takeout and beer and cigarette smoke. The dragon, Ernest, wriggled in my arms as I carried him back to the bed, put him in there with Grace. I watched his scaly body scamper toward her. The creature curled himself on the pillow right beside her face. He closed his eyes as if to demonstrate sleep. Grace immediately shut her eyes.