“Why did I need morphine?” he asks again. He sounds so scared. Like a child.
“You didn’t,” I tell him. I wish there was an easy to way to say this. To tell him why he’s here, why he’s in this condition. “You were injected with it. To make a point.”
He frowns, clearly even more confused by my answer.
“We’ll talk about it another time, okay, Pa?”
He shakes his head. “Saoirse… Saoirse, girl… Does this have something to do with Tristan?”
I cringe, but I can’t bring myself to deny it either. “I think so, Pa.”
His face pales a little and his expression twists. “I remember… I remember some things… It’s hazy…”
“Don’t strain yourself,” I insist. “Sleep now. When you’re feeling up to it, we’ll talk.”
I make him drink some water and then I hold his hand until he falls back to sleep. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, trying not to relive the horror of seeing him in that godforsaken coffin.
But every time I blink, I see it again.
He could have died.
Because of me.
Hell, he very nearly did.
I pace around the room with nothing to do. I’m unwilling to leave, so I uselessly fluff pillows, draw the blinds down, and tidy up areas that don’t need to be tidied.
I feel useless. Irrelevant. And extremely guilty.
Sometime later, the door opens with a soft creak. I glance over as Fiona walks in carrying a large tray. I clear space for her on the round table sitting in front of the windows.
There’s an assortment of breads and pastries, some juice, more water. Everything smells amazing. But I have no appetite.
“Saoirse, dear,” she says gently. “You need to eat.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
She sighs. She was expecting that response. “Is there anything you would like to eat?”
I shake my head. “Couldn’t if I tried.”
She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I know it’s hard,” she says. “But stay strong. He’s still here.”
I give her a tight smile and she leaves the room as quietly as she came in. I sit down in front of the laden tray and stare with disinterest at all the food she’s packed onto it.
My thoughts start twisting around with ever-increasing fervor. But they go nowhere productive. Nowhere helpful.
Just around and around in endless, nightmarish circles.
* * *
Pa sleeps for about an hour. When he wakes up, I’m right by his side. “Have you been here the entire time?” he asks.
“Of course,” I reply, sitting up and putting my hands on his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
He gazes at the ceiling for a moment. “Strange. Weak. Ashamed.”
I don’t expect that. I raise my eyebrows.