Page 120 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
Instead, I laid there for a very long time, listening to her breathe.
And so it went.
I asked direct questions, I gave direct orders. Shower, eat, drink, sleep. Just as I would a sub stuck in permanent subspace.
I made sure she wasn’t cold; I let her cuddle me when she wanted, which was an increasing amount. When I worked during the day, she would find her way to the floor by my chair, resting her shoulder against my knee while she read books on her phone. When I stood at the windows, she’d come next to me and take my hand. When we slept, we slept close and intertwined, and when we ate, we ate together.
I took her to her daily appointments, I checked in with Auden and her parents, I kept up with work. Slowly, she stirred to life again, talking more, smiling more, doing more, and by the time the rains lifted enough that the Danseys could fly home to her daughter, she was almost herself again. Enough herself that her therapist graduated her to every three days instead of every day.
On the day the Danseys came to pick her up from my flat, I helped her pack her holdall and fed her one last meal—homemade jollof rice, leftovers from last night. I found my hands shaking as I cleared away our final meal together. My stomach was lined with lead.
It had only been a week. And yet in that week, I’d grown so used to her that the idea of parting felt like a bisection, a severing off of something vital.
She would have people who loved her once she was gone, I knew that. She would have professionals helping her find her strength. But whose feet would she sit by during the day? And who would she snuggle innocently into at night? Who would take care of all the parts of her—not just the daughter, not just the client—but the woman who liked to read at a friend’s feet and nap in the sun?
I told myself that was why I was upset that she was leaving, that it was impersonal worry and nothing more. It had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with missing her, not at all.
And yet when I walked her to the door and prepared to open it for her parents and said, “Come back if you need to,” I meant it almost as a plea. Almost like a prayer.
And when she said, “Yes, Rebecca, I will,” I had the strangest thought.
It was that she did too.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rebecca
The headache is a living thing, and its intention is to kill me.
It was there when I fell asleep after getting my hair done, and there when I woke up this morning before Delphine. It followed me to work, it kneaded at my scalp as I drank coffee and answered the first round of emails. And somewhere between the first meeting of the day and the second, it grew a soul and teeth. It grew fingers and fingertips. It grew trailing, squ
eezing tentacles, and it squeezed my temples, my eyes, the cavities of my upper sinuses.
My scalp stings like it’s being turned inside out. My stomach swirls uneasily, not sure what to make of the pain.
I remind myself that it’s only the occipital and trigeminal nerves registering compression. It’s biology, it’s mechanics. Nerves and nerve endings passing news of the pain like children in a whispering game. Pressure, electricity, chemicals. Pain doesn’t exist, only the perception of it does.
Which is to say, ironically enough, the headache is all in my head.
“Rebecca, are you listening?” my father asks. It’s only the two of us in here reviewing the Severn riverfront budget, but of course he would demand my full and utter attention.
I look up from the file I have open in front of me, trying to force myself to focus again. “My apologies. I have a headache.”
I wait for his inevitable frown, for the quiet, firm reminder that work doesn’t wait for headaches. I’m ready for it, for the cool disapproval that always accompanies anything that might be a hindrance to focus and productivity.
So when he covers my hand with his own and meets my eyes, I’m staggered. Even more so when he asks, in a genuinely concerned tone, “Are you feeling well? Do you need to take the rest of the day off?”
The rest of the day off? Who is this man and where is the real Samson Quartey?
“What? Daddy, no. It’s just my hair. It always hurts for a couple days after I have it done.”
A line appears between his brows. “It does?”
I let out a puff of air that’s half amused disbelief and half genuine irritation. “Yes, Daddy. Every time.”
“Oh,” he says, looking puzzled. “I see.”
I look down at the fatherly hand folded over my own, not sure what to do. For years he’s resisted any show of paternal affection in the office, and now he’s touching my hand like he wants me to feel comforted, and I don’t know what to make of it.
