Her face lights up the slightest bit. “My grandmother?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do remember quite a bit about her.”
“Like what?” Willow scoots closer, wearing an intrigued expression on her face. “Is she alive?”
“No.” A solemn look crosses over my features. I don’t want to get into the depressing details surrounding my mother’s death. “She died when I was very young. But, she loved lavender perfume and lullabies and she was sweet, loving, caring.”
Willow smiles. “And my grandfather?”
That is a topic that I definitely don’t want to dive into. “He’s dead too.” Dead, gone, and buried and my opinion his death was for the greater good of humanity. “He died in prison.” And that’s all I’m going to say about him.
“How did you meet my father, then?”
“I believe he was my doctor at some point.” According to my file that I confiscated that’s what it said. “Here,” I take Willow’s hand. She hesitates at first, but then her hand relaxes beneath my firm grip. “Come with me.”
I stand slowly, with wobbling knees and a shortness of breath. For a second, I feel light-headed and almost fall back into my chair. Willow is up in a flash and with her other hand she grabs my elbow and steadies me. “Are you okay?” she asks with genuine concern.
“I’m sick,” I comment with a soft laugh. “But I’m not dead yet.”
They told me not too long ago that I have cancer. They also told me that it’s a very aggressive kind, but that’s all I made out of my diagnosis. I tuned them out the second they told me I was dying and refused to listen to another word. I’ve also refused treatments. Most of the staff members told me this was a stupid decision, but I disagree with them. When you’ve lived a life full of bleak, destructive misery sometimes death is the only thing you can look forward to. Because at the end of it all, you know that it is the only thing that will bring you peace.
I’ve hoped for peace for years and years and years.
I’ve prayed for it.
Wished for it.
Now that I’m one step closer, I don’t want to fight to get it.
I want to slip away into the night and be swaddled by the comfort of serenity without having to look back.
I’m unprepared for Willow’s abrupt action, but when she pulls me by the arms and hugs me tightly my body relaxes against hers. This moment between us feels warm and familiar and beautiful and I don’t want it to end. “Please don’t die,” she whispers against the curve of my neck. “I just found you. I don’t want to lose you.”
I can feel her heart hammering against her ribcage. I can hear the soft sobs leaving her throat. “Don’t cry, little bird,” I murmur. “No matter what happens, I’ll always be with you.” Reluctantly, I pull out of the embrace, keeping my hands on her elbows. I’m fearing this might be too emotionally overwhelming for the both of us so I cut our interaction short by changing the subject. “Come with me.” I keep a firm grip on her right hand and pull her through the door.
“Are you allowed to leave this room?” Willow asks as we stroll through the double doors and out into the hall.
“They don’t pay very much attention to me anymore,” I say. What I don’t say is how they used to watch me, follow me, and escort me wherever I went. What I can’t say is how they tortured me by filling my veins with drugs, fried my brain with th
eir version of therapy, and led me on with their beautiful versions of lies. What I won’t say is how I let this place break me. Over and over and over again. Right now, the only thing I want to think about is this happy moment and not dwell on my fucked up past.
We’re half-way to my room when Willow says, “Okay.”
When we reach the cell, I open the door and gesture her inside. She’s wary. I can tell because once I’m in the tiny room, she remains at the door, her eyes sweeping over everything before resting on my face. I motion for her to come closer. “It’s okay.”
She steps through the door, glancing from white wall to white wall before stopping in front of my cot. Brushing past her, I close the door to my cell. I’m trying to be discreet because I’ve kept what I’m about to give her a secret from the staff for years. It’s the only thing that connects me to my past and I didn’t want them to take it from me. I’m at Willow’s side again in a few steps, leaning over and removing the manila file folder from beneath my cot. “Take this.” I shove it at her, placing it flat against her chest. “Hide it. Don’t let them see you with it.”
“What is it?” Willow takes the envelope and peeks inside it.
“My file. My history. It’s all I have left, but maybe, just maybe it will contain some of the answers you’re looking for.”
Our eyes lock. “Does it say anything about my father?”
“Yes. But very little. There’s a clipping from a newspaper on him in there. His obituary.”
“Right.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence between us and I know it’s because neither one of us wants to discuss the painful tragedy surrounding Elijah’s death. I step back and sit down on the cot. I pat the bare spot next to me hoping to make the moment less awkward and say, “So why don’t you tell me about yourself? Tell me what you’ve been up to.”