Could he really have guessed it that fast? Or was Savannah just going along with it to shut him up?
“It’s my mother’s name,” said Simon. “Marie is very popular as a middle name.” He opened his mouth to ask another question, and Amy took him by the arm. Next he’d be asking for her date of birth and tax file number. If Savannah did have evil plans, Amy didn’t want her feeling compelled to fast-track them.
“The bathroom is this way,” she said.
“Wait, is this you?” asked Simon in his natural voice. He’d stopped in front of a photo of Amy triumphantly holding up a tiny trophy with both hands, racquet resting against her thigh, big Wimbledon-winning smile, even though it was just the Under 9s regionals.
“Yes, that’s me,” said Amy.
“You were so cute,” said Simon. He kept standing there, examining the photo. “I didn’t know you played tennis!”
“Yep,” she said.
“I play a bit of social tennis,” said Simon. “We should have a game sometime. You’d probably beat me.”
“I would definitely beat you,” said Amy. She pointed down the hallway. “Second door on the left.”
Simon looked at her blankly, forgetting his ruse to get inside.
“Bathroom?” Amy reminded him.
“Ah yes! Thank you, Amy!” He returned to his loud, overly enunciated tone.
When he left, Amy and Savannah looked at each other. It was the oddest feeling. Amy was in the home where she grew up, with photos either side of her attesting to this, and yet she still felt like Savannah was the host. She couldn’t seem to find the right balance between two indisputable facts: Savannah should feel grateful to Amy because her family had given her shelter in her time of need. Amy should feel grateful to Savannah because she was taking care of her parents, and doing a better job than any of the Delaney children ever would or could.
“I’ll just pop my head in the door and see if Mum is still asleep,” said Amy.
A complicated expression crossed Savannah’s face. “Sure. I’ll get back to the kitchen. I’m in the middle of making minestrone. Sing out if Joy needs anything.”
Sing out if Joy needs anything.
Because I am the one who can provide your mother with everything she needs.
Sing out was a Joy phrase. This girl was a mini Joy.
The besotted dog pattered off on Savannah’s heels.
Amy resolutely turned her head the other way as she walked past her old bedroom where Savannah now slept. Selfish! Childish! No one else in the family still considers any room in this house “their bedroom”! She heard the toilet flush as Simon completed his fake bathroom visit.
She pushed open the door of her parents’ bedroom. It smelled as it always had: a comforting mix of her mother’s perfume, her father’s deodorant, and the old-fashioned furniture polish still used by Good Old Barb and Amy’s mother when they cleaned together.
Her mother lay on her side facing away from the door, the covers pulled right up over her shoulders. Her hair—which brought her so many compliments—was mussed against the pillow. Amy tiptoed to the end of the bed. Her mother was asleep, breathing steadily, one hand curled up near her lips so that she seemed to be kissing her knuckles. She had told her children this was because she had sucked her thumb as a child, and it still gave her comfort to have her banned thumb close to her mouth.
The lines on Joy’s face looked like crevices. Amy breathed fast as that old familiar terror gripped her. All children feared their parents dying. Except Amy had once been so consumed by her fear that she hyperventilated, and had to breathe into a paper bag, and the babysitter had to call Joy and Stan to come home fast because this kid was weird.
She wondered what would have happened if her mother had died when Amy was a child. How could the reality of grief be worse than her imagining of it, when she had imagined it so very, very hard? How would she cope now, when her parents inevitably did die, as parents inevitably did, and you had to be so grown-up and mature about it? How did people cope with ordinary, predictable tragedy? It was impossible, insurmountable …
“Amy?”
/> Her mother opened her eyes and sat up. She put on her glasses from her bedside table, smoothed down her hair, and smiled. “Amy? You’ve caught me napping.”
“It’s good that you’re napping, Mum.” Amy breathed slowly in and out. Her mother wasn’t going to die for decades. “You’ve been in hospital. You should be resting.”
Joy waved her hand dismissively. “I took my last antibiotic this morning. I’m fine now. I just get tired in the middle of the day. Come here.” She patted the side of the bed. “Give me a hug.”
Amy went and sat next to her, and her mother hugged her fiercely.
“You look especially beautiful today, darling. I wasn’t so keen on the blue hair at first, but now I think it really makes your eyes pop.”