III.
Antonia was walking through the mud in her dream. Of course she was alone. She was the one left behind to take care of things, the responsible one who did what she must without anyone’s help. In her dream, however, she was much wilder, she was wrecking her dress and as she trod through a bank of reeds she lifted her skirt, for the hem was already soaking. This traipsing about seemed foolhardy in a way she would never be in her waking life. Still, she had no choice but to go forward. How strange, she rarely wore dresses, but this one suited her well. There were crows above her, clouds of cawing birds blocking out the sun, their jeweled blue-black feathers falling to the ground. As she entered the water, there was a woman in the shallows, facedown, her dress floating out like a lily, her arms and legs unmoving. Antonia approached, but before she could stop herself she went under and she went under fast.
She awoke with a gasp, spitting water. She could feel her baby moving inside her, and sat up in bed. Her window had been left open and the rain had come in on gusts of wind and now everything in the room had a damp green sheen. The Charles River had flooded and Storrow Drive was impassable. It was a Sunday and even though she would have preferred to try to track down her mother and Gillian and Franny, she kept her promise to look in on Reverend Willard, driving up in Gillian’s car, bringing along some packaged cookies. She unpacked the biscuits in the car, arranging them on the paper plate before going into the retirement home. There, she thought, as good as homemade.
When she walked in the door, everyone knew who she was, the Owens girl who was a medical student. A woman who was visiting her father stopped Antonia in the hall to ask if she could check in on her dad, for she’d arrived to find him listless and clearly unwell.
“I don’t work here,” Antonia said.
“Just a look,” the woman pleaded. Everyone knew what an Owens woman was capable of and this one was studying to be a doctor as well.
The woman’s eyes were brimming with tears, and there Antonia was, the responsible sister once more. “Fine,” she allowed. “But I’m only a medical student.”
Still the woman insisted; she’d gone to Jet on several occasions, searching for cures for headaches that wouldn’t cease, a husband who complained night and day, and a son who couldn’t seem to get or hold a job.
Antonia went into a corner room, shared by two elderly patients. The one by the window was the father. He was so close to death a black cloud of ash was already spreading across the ceiling. Antonia tried not to pay attention to such illogical signs, especially when working at the hospital. But some things couldn’t be ignored. There were ashes on the old man’s bedsheets. Antonia quickly took the father’s vitals and listened to his chest. A nurse had come in to watch. “He had the flu and it’s just lingered,” the nurse said. “He says he’s feeling fine.”
“I say it because it’s true,” the old fellow said feebly. He was listless and half asleep, eyes closed.
“Pneumonia,” Antonia decided. “He needs IV antibiotics.”
The nurse was cautious. “I have to have a doctor’s order.”
Antonia lowered her voice. “When does the doctor come? If it’s tomorrow, this gentleman will likely be dead.”
Antonia and the nurse shared a wordless exchange of agreement. The medication was brought in, the door clicked shut, and an IV was inserted. Half an hour later the old man had opened his eyes.
Antonia finally made it to the Reverend’s room, still carrying the plate of biscuits, though they were a bit worse for wear, flaking pale crust. “Hey there,” she called. “Here at last.”
She sounded ill-tempered, even to herself. Half of her morning was already gone and she was eager to get back in the car and head home. Reverend Willard sat in a plastic chair, gazing out the window. He loved the spring, though he was convinced that this dark, bloomless season might be his last one. That was why he was so tearful. He turned to see a pretty young woman who was quite pregnant. The Reverend had no idea who Antonia was, only she wasn’t Franny, who was always quite sour and difficult, so it was a relief to have this fresh, young woman appear, though it was clear that the pale crumbly biscuits she offered were store-bought.