“Yeah,” Finn replied.
“At Lennox’s funeral, the preacher said it was a shame people made such a big deal about the start and the finish of a life and overlooked the most important part,” May said.
“What’s that?” Finn leaned closer.
“The dash.” She made a short slash with her finger. “That little, insignificant mark that connects the two dates. That dash represents someone’s life. Everything they accomplished between those two dates, and it’s just that dumb dash. People should pay more attention to the dash.”
Finn put his hand over hers.
“All I’m saying,” May continued, “is that it’s not important that you’re here for the end date. You were here for the dash.”
“You said it yourself, May. Shared suffering is diluted suffering. I’m staying with you.” Finn sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee.
May chuckled. “My own wisdom biting me in the ass.”
“‘Bout time,” he said.
“Well, if you must,” she sighed.
“I must.”
“Just go into the kitchen for me and check the faucet. I think I hear the sink dripping.” She rearranged her readers on her nose and opened the new photo album.
Finn walked out and crossed over to the kitchen. He knew as well as she did the sink wasn’t leaking. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it staring out at the yard. The garden was mulched, the hedges trimmed, the bulbs sprouting. Everything was in order.
When Finn returned to the room, the bottle of sleeping pills was gone from the nightstand, and the glass of water was empty.
May patted the bed with a soft smile, and Finn reclaimed his seat. “I’d say you’ve been like a son to me, but if you were my son, one of us would be dead, and the other would be in jail.”
“May, thank you.” Finn cleared his throat.
“The first day I met you when you stormed off—”
Finn hung his head, half-amused, half-ashamed.
“I told Lennox, I was never gonna get anywhere with you, that I didn’t understand why the Good Lord was keeping me here past my expiration date.”
“Did he answer you?” Finn asked.
“No.” She patted his hand. “You did.”
Finn looked up then.
“You remember when I asked you that day if you thought we all just shed personas and become new people over time. Like molting?” May asked.
“Yeah,” Finn replied.
“Well, try to hang on to this one for a bit. You landed on a darn good one.”
The words caught in his throat. “May, I’m afraid.”
“The fact that you can admit that tells me you’re going to be just fine. Remember, fear is the counterpoint of courage; there is no courage without fear.”
“May…”
“Now quit yapping, and let’s see what we have here.” She winced ever so slightly as she sat up and opened the new album. “Let’s see what we have,” she repeated. “Oh hell, this is childhood. Christmas was madness in the Moss household.”
They flipped through the pages for half an hour. May gagged once, and Finn gave her a sip of Pepto and refilled her water glass. He removed a pillow from the stack as she slid down in the bed. May was mumbling incoherent things about fighting over dolls and a tree fort.