Page 22 of Absolution

I wake with a jerk. It’s still dark outside. There it is, the sound that woke me. More coughing, and a small pathetic whining, coming from the little body in the bed. I sway when I stand, then I carefully lift her frail feverish form and try to soothe her, rocking her slowly in my arms like I’ve seen Kerry do. Against my chest she feels no larger than a small bird in a hand.

How can such a little life, having lived little more than a year, without anything significant to say, with no skills, and with the table manners of a dog, still mean so much?

I glance at Kerry. She looks completely out of it and I decide to leave her alone. If she doesn’t even wake up when her daughter cries three feet away, then she definitely needs her sleep. I feel such regret it almost chokes me. Tomorrow at this time I won’t be with this little kid anymore and I probably won’t be able to be this close to her ever again. Right now she trusts me, and I relish the moment.

I know all too well it won’t last.

Cecilia’s eyelids become heavier and heavier until she’s asleep again, her head leaning against my chest. I give her an extra little squeeze before I put her down, awed by her trust.

She doesn’t even stir.

Kerry lies with an arm slung over the side of the couch, her hand awkwardly bent as it rests against the chilly floorboards. There’s some space between her and the backrest, and I can’t resist the pull, my last chance at being near her. I’m a selfish bastard. I know.

Carefully nestling in behind her, I cover us with the duvet and tuck her arm in beneath it. Her skin is cold. I maneuver until her head rests on my shoulder, like she lay once, that one night when we slept together. Kerry stirs a little but doesn’t wake. My heart twinges. I’m stealing a little closeness she won’t give me. Like she said: I take, take, take. But what else is there for me to do?

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