Page 63 of The Missing Half

And then suddenly, I heard my sister say my name behind me. Her voice was so familiar, so uniquely soft and calming, that even though she was the last person I was expecting to be there, I knew it was her before I even turned around.

“Dang, Nic,” she said, her eyes on my painting. “This one’s yours? It’s good. Like, really good.”

“Where’d you come from?” Only in sixth grade herself, she wasn’t much taller than the other fourth graders and she must’ve slipped in without me seeing. Without waiting for a response, I said, “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s sick. She told me to tell you she’s sorry. She feels bad about missing.”

“But…” I said, “she was fine this morning.”

“I know. I think it’s the flu or something, ’cause it happened really fast.”

Kasey, it turned out, had taken the city bus to the stop nearest the elementary school. It wasn’t a long ride, but it was the first either of us had ever used public transit, and to get us home, she had tonavigate it all in reverse with a fourth grader by her side. When we walked through the door, the house smelled like vodka. It’s obvious now, but it would take years for me to understand what happened that night, to understand that my sister had lied to spare my feelings.

The memory is softening my anger toward Jenna, turning my confused suspicion into something less ominous. Deep down, I still trust that she is trying to protect me, that, just like Kasey on the night of the show-and-tell, she is lying to keep me safe.

I just wish I knew what danger she thinks I’m in.

—

I’ve had an idea percolating on the ride home, and when the bus pulls into the station in South Bend, I make the snap decision to act upon it: I’m going to visit Jenna’s mom.

I know she and Jenna have a complicated relationship, but during these past few weeks, Jenna has been a near constant by her side. They must be talking. And though it’s morbid to admit, who could be a safer person to confide in than someone who’s waiting to die? If Jenna has told anyone the truth about what’s going on, I have to believe it would be her mom.

I unlock my bike from the rack outside the station and take the local bus back to Mishawaka. But instead of getting off at the stop nearest my apartment, I stay on for another three till we pass Memorial Park. I remember Jenna’s mom’s neighborhood from the time Jenna dropped medicine off there a few weeks ago, and unlike Jenna’s place, surrounded by a maze of streets, her mom’s is right off the main road. The idea of knocking on a dying woman’s door to interrogate her feels icky, so I stop by a grocery store on the way to buy flowers. After I’ve paid for them though, I realize that showing up on her doorstep with a bouquet doesn’t make me kinder, only more manipulative—I’m getting better at this. Maybe the thought should make me feel bad, but it doesn’t. If the flowers get me even an inch closer to finding out what happened to Kasey, they’re worth it. I stuff them into my backpack, then pedal the final quarter mile to Mrs. Connor’s house.

When I reach the corner of her street, I slow, looking for Jenna’struck, but there’s only one car in the driveway. Does it belong to Mrs. Connor? A hospice worker?

The house is just as I remember it, a small one-story with peeling gray paint and a sagging roof, as if its own weight is too much for it to bear. The yard is sparse in some places and overgrown in others, the effects of a dry summer on top of years of neglect. In the surrounding yards I spot a rusty tricycle, a deflating kiddie pool, Barbies stripped bare and limbs akimbo. Mrs. Connor’s yard is empty.

Despite my conviction earlier, with every step I take closer to the screened front door, my sense of dread and impropriety grows. Here I am, a stranger, interrupting the last few weeks—possibly the last few days—this woman has left, and all I have to offer is a thirteen-dollar, plastic-wrapped bouquet of daisies. Nerves clench a cold fist around my neck. I imagine the inside of the house thick with the smell of decay, cluttered with pill bottles, an IV stand, all the other accoutrements of death I don’t know about. I imagine a hospice worker leading me back to the bedroom, Mrs. Connor sunk in her bed, struggling for each breath.

I shoot a glance over my shoulder. Knowing Jenna, she won’t be away for long, so it’s now or never. I take a deep breath, lift a fist, and knock.

After a moment, the door cracks open, and a woman peers through, revealing nothing more than a sliver of her face—a narrow, watery eye; the pinched corner of a mouth. The house is dark and the screen door is shadowing her features, but even so, I know immediately this is not a hospice worker.

“Yeah?” the woman says. There’s a burble of daytime television from the room beyond. “What d’you want?”

“Are you…Mrs. Connor?” Based on everything Jenna told me, I wasn’t expecting her mom to be able to walk, let alone answer the door, but she also said the cancer was fickle. Good days and bad.

“Unless you got cigarettes, I’m not interested in buying.”

“I—no. I’m not here to sell you anything.”

The one eye I can see narrows. “You one of those bible beaters, then? I thought you guys dressed up more.”

“Mrs. Connor, my name’s Nic. I’m a friend of Jenna’s.”

“She’s not here.” The door starts to close.

“Wait!” I say. “Please. It’s you I want to see. Here.” I thrust out the bouquet. “These are for you.”

Mrs. Connor eyes the flowers, and I can see a debate churning in her mind. A gift was clearly the right idea; I just wish I’d sprung for the more expensive ones. I hold my breath, praying she deems them nice enough to buy her time. Finally, she opens the door.

Though we’re still separated by the screen, I can see her properly now. She’s wearing a white nightgown with a pink robe over it, untied and pilling. A cigarette is perched between two fingers, a plume of smoke curling to the ceiling. In her other hand, she holds a plastic mask connected by a thin tube to an oxygen tank by her feet.

“Well,” she says, “Maurycomes on in twenty, but I suppose you can come in till then.” Without opening the screen door, she turns back into the house, dragging the oxygen tank behind her.

The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I step inside, the air hot and unmoving. The ceilings are low, and none of the lights in the house are on, so it feels a little like walking into a cave. The living room is off the right. Mrs. Connor has resettled on the couch, an overflowing ashtray on the upholstered arm beside her. The TV flickers with a commercial—she’s the last living person paying for cable. To my left is a kitchen with linoleum floors and a metal table. Dishes litter the counter by the sink.

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