Page 195 of Smoke and Fire
“I’ll speak to you outside.”
He nodded, gave one last farewell to his sister, and we stepped into the hall. Shayna followed us out, closing the door behind her. When she turned to Bastian, something like fear lived in his gaze.
“She’s doing great,” Shayna said in a soothing voice. She put a hand on his shoulder. “For what her body can do, she's hanging in there. But she’s growing more uncomfortable as the days pass. Her lung and heart function are declining, and so is her energy. The doctor will be here tomorrow morning at his usual time if you want to speak with him, but the decision to call hospice is really one to make sure she remains comfortable.”
“Has Nessa spoken with you about it?” he asked. “Does she understand what hospice means?”
“Not really, but she’s starting to understand that she won’t get better. Sometimes she asks me what happens when we die, but not often.”
Bastian nodded. “Of course I want to speak with the doctor. I’ll be here tomorrow. And I’ll have new oil paints and canvases for her.”
Shayna nodded with a warm smile. “She’d love that. Have you had any update on your Dad?”
He shook his head. The hard wall in his gaze slammed back into place that had lifted around Inessa. Shayna patted his shoulder, and her eyes fell to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a smile, “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Shayna, the nurse here most of the time.”
“This is Dahlia,” Bastian said, before I could speak. He set a hand on my shoulder. “My friend.”
A breath of relief almost escaped me. For half a moment, I thought he’d sayassistantor something awkward like that. Friend I would take, and gratefully.
Shayna smiled. “I’m happy to see someone with you. Call me with any questions, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Bastian and I exited the bright facility without saying a word. Shayna’s voice reverberated in my head.
I’m happy to see someone with you.
We fell into our separate thoughts as we returned to the car. Once there, he opened my door again, brow knitted as he shut it after I had stepped in.
Did he work on autopilot? Did he realize the sweet, small things he did? While he walked around the car, I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, letting it out seconds before he opened the door. The air had grown heavy, but not in a bad way.
His truck rumbled to life, and I realized then that it was kind of old. Functional, certainly, and well taken care of, with a tool box in the bed and new-ish looking tires. The floors were vacuumed, no dust lingered anywhere, but the carpet and seats had worn thin. Did Bastian live so simply and quietly so Inessa could have this?
And what about his father?
The quiet air broke when I said, “Would you like to go visit your father now?”
“I need to.”
He put the truck into reverse, but didn’t say where we were going. Nor did I miss that he saidneedinstead ofwantin his response. Did he dread seeing his father? He certainly showed no excitement.
I clicked my seat belt on and watched the mountain world fly by. The hills had been scorched by the sun, turning once-green hillsides into crispy brown. Bikers, tourists, and hikers ducked under shade where they could find it, wearing wide-brim hats and sunglasses to shield themselves from the hot glare.
In between mountain peaks, glimpses of the building smoke plume were apparent. Not as close here, but still alive.
Several minutes later, we pulled into a parking lot. The moment the truck sputtered to a stop, Bastian slipped outside.
My gaze stopped on the sign ahead of us.
Memory Care Services.
22
BASTIAN
If I didn’t get out of the truck, I’d never go inside.
It’s why I banked on the inertia of the moving vehicle to propel me out of the driver’s seat almost the same second we stopped.
