“I don’t want that. Who else could I possibly want you to be but you?”
He’s thinking about me calling him Paul. Is he going to mention it? No.
“Look, Hugo, I wanted you from the moment I first saw you.” Back before you even knew I existed, I think. “You and no one else, okay? Really.”
“And then this morning—”
“What about this morning?”
“Well, I woke up because I heard screams. I thought for sure it was someone outside being attacked. That maybe Mrs. Lee was hurt or something.” I’m careful not to look annoyed at the mention of Mrs. Lee. “But it was you. You were screaming right beside me. Your eyes were wide open but you were asleep. You were screaming something.”
He looks frightened now.
I think of the little statue of Mary I saw on his dresser. Didn’t know you were religious, I said to him.
I’m not. Not really. I stole her from the jail library. I know it’s stupid, but she comforted me. So I keep her. She’s sort of a talisman.
“We talked about this, and I told you. It’s just production anxiety,” I say. “I have weird anxiety dreams around this time of year. You know how it is.”
He nods. He knows how it is, of course he does.
“It just reminded me of jail. People having nightmares all around me. Screaming in their sleep. You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”
“I’m fine. Really. Really, really.”
“I’m just hoping you’re happy with me is all. I’m hoping I’m what you want. Because you’re what I want, Miranda. You are.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I’m happy with you. I’m so happy my mouth literally hurts from smiling. Seriously. Ask my students. Grace can barely stand me these days.”
He smiles. Relaxes now. “How is Grace, by the way? Didn’t see her on campus yesterday. We were supposed to go over some set changes but she never showed.”
“Oh, she’s ill, sadly. Must have caught that thing Briana got.”
“You’re kidding.” Hugo shakes his head. “Jesus, when those things come, they really sweep, don’t they?”
“They really do.”
“God, I hope I don’t get it.”
“You? Not you. Never. I promise you.”
CHAPTER 25
ON MY WAY to school from Hugo’s, I decide to stop by Grace’s place. Not to disturb her or anything, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing Grace. I don’t ring the bell or knock on the door, no, no. Just sit in my parked car and stare at her shuttered house from across the street. Just to make sure the flowers and Get Well balloons get delivered all right. Just to make sure she receives all the gifts I’ve given her. Through the windshield, I watch the delivery boy amble up to her front door, his gangly arms encumbered with all my thoughtful arrangements for Grace: the tulips, the irises, the freesia—can’t we all agree that spring flowers are just the prettiest flowers?—and the cactus, of course, of course. I hold my breath as he rings the doorbell with his nose. I’m excited. Any minute now, she’ll open the door. She’ll be wearing her gray silk kimono patterned with cherry blossoms that she loves. I bought that robe for her. It was a gift just like these flowers are gifts. It’s a kimono just like mine, like the one she admired so much when she saw it hanging on the back of my bedroom door. She even stroked a silk sleeve.
This is pretty, she said darkly.
I smile in my car now, remembering how she lifted the new robe up out of the sea of pink tissue paper I’d wrapped it in. Her blushing surprise at the sight of all that silk.
You didn’t have to, Miranda, she said, putting it on right away. Now she almost never takes it off, do you, Grace? When you’re at home?
She’ll be wearing it now when she comes to the door, I’m sure. She’ll look a little pale, a little tired maybe, but otherwise still hearty. Still Grace. I can’t wait to see her face, I’ll admit it. Her hard, possibly confused expression—What is all this?—puddling into delight, understanding, at the sight of all those bright spring flowers, all those grinning yellow balloons beaming at her. Small smile. Shake of the head. Oh, Miranda.
The flower boy rings the bell again and again.
So she’s a little slow-moving, that’s all. Obviously, I understand about that. I watch him set down my flowers and balloons on the front step and begin to knock. Nothing. Another knock. Still nothing. Grace’s windows stay dark, her frilly curtains drawn tight. I’m not worried at all. I’m still smiling behind the wheel as I watch the boy knock and knock at the door. One more long ring of the doorbell. And then he leaves it all there on her front steps.