Her smile was a dimmer, sadder version of her usual beautiful smile.
“I can see that about you,” she said. “That’s why you’re Jim on the nametag but Jimmy with the kind eyes in real life. Very kind for such a strong, intimidating man.” Her hand on my arm tightened its grip. “Like Marc Antony. A soldier who doesn’t want to fight but will if he has to.”
She turned to me suddenly, fear swimming in the blue depths of her eyes.
“You’d fight for me, wouldn’t you, Jimmy?” she asked. “Like Marc Antony?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “Yeah, Thea. I would.”
She nodded but didn’t look reassured. Only confused, as if she were trying to work out a problem by talking it out.
“Antony fought for Cleopatra,” she said, as we started walking again. “He fought so bravely for her. But their enemies were liars. Cowards. They told Antony that Cleopatra had died, and so he stabbed himself with his own sword. And when she heard that, she became weak with grief. Undone. Funny how that works. The stronger the love, the more helpless the person feels in the wake of its loss.”
Like one of her word chains, Thea’s pain rose to the surface through a murky swamp of amnesia. I listened, struggling to understand.
“Antony was dead,” she said. “Cleopatra was alone. So she put her hand in the snake’s basket to end the pain. The alone-ness. It’s not the same as loneliness. Alone-ness is an abyss. It’s being alone even when you’re surrounded by people. It’s vast and empty and silent.”
My mind was blank. At a loss for a way to help her. Her next words chilled me to the bone.
“Cleopatra thought she’d be alone forever. Death was the better choice.” She looked up at me. “Maybe she’s right. Anything is better than alone.”
Jesus.
Thea knew what was happening to her and no one could help. She was alone in her prison. Painting had somehow deepened the understanding of it in a way I couldn’t have anticipated. I wasn’t a doctor. Doctors swore an oath to do no harm.
I’d harmed Thea badly.
I tried one last time. “Would you like some music?”
Because music is life. Remember?
She shook her head. “I want to
go inside.”
“Sure,” I said, my stomach twisting tighter. “Whatever you want.”
I led Thea inside to the rec room, where Delia was already waiting. Keeping her promise to come every day to monitor her sister. She watched me with a dagger-glare. Her moment of weakness in front of me the other day was hard and clear in her eyes.
“Delia!”
Thea’s voice was frayed at the ends and then cut off with a strangled sound as she suffered an absence seizure. When the seizure released her, Thea ran to her sister and held her tight.
“How long has it been? Where are Mom and Dad?”
My heart fucking broke at the pain in her voice.
“Two years,” Delia said. “They’ll be here soon.”
Thea didn’t let go of her but clung to her, face buried in her shoulder. Rita hurried over, her hands twisting, her face a mask of worry.
“What’s going on?” Delia demanded over Thea’s shoulder. “Why is she like this?”
“We don’t know, Ms. Hughes,” Rita said, glancing at me.
Delia said a few words to Thea then gently extracted herself. She sat her sister down at the table and pulled us aside.
“She can’t know what happened to our parents,” she hissed at me. “You didn’t tell her, did you? Is that why she’s so upset?”