Audra tossed the fish flakes into the trash. Another lesson learned.
She downed the cool water, soothing her roughened throat. Sounds of a televised sports game reverberated from the tenant above. Audra’s head felt full of helium, light enough to fly away. When was the last time she had eaten a meal?
A knock on the front door startled her. She hoped it hadn’t wakened Jack.
She investigated through the peephole. Meredith stood beside Robert, who wore a Trailblazers cap, both of them in coats. It was Saturday morning. Why would they—
The cemetery. The flags.
Damn.
Audra scrambled to unlock the door before they could ring the bell.
“Hi,” she said, letting them in.
“Good morning . . .” Robert’s inflection implied more of a question.
Meredith cocked her head, as though rethinking her greeting. Her eyes flickered over Audra.
From a glance downward, Audra recalled her appearance. Between the frazzled hair and wine-doused shirt, she must have been a beauty. “It was a long night. I fell asleep with a glass in my hand.” She released a quick laugh at herself.
“Ah,” Meredith replied, and smiled.
“So,” Robert said. “Is Jack ready for us?”
Audra pictured her son curled up cozily in her bed. She couldn’t imagine disturbing his serenity after the night they had endured.
“Actually,” Audra said, “I don’t think today’s a good day for the cemetery visit, after all.”
Robert and Meredith exchanged surprised looks.
“He’s actually still asleep. He was having—”
“Grandma?” Jack emerged from the bedroom, rubbing his eyes.
“Gracious. What happened?” Meredith rushed over to him and knelt down. She examined his cast as though it were a futuristic contraption. “What did you do here?”
Jack shrugged, kept his gaze low. He couldn’t remember.
“It happened during a bad dream,” Audra told them. “He accidentally hit the nightstand with his arm.”
“Is it broken?” Meredith asked her.
“It is, but not too badly. The cast shouldn’t be on for more than a month.”
Robert piped in, “See what a tough nut he is? We’ll have to start calling him The Giant, instead of Beanstalk.”
Jack’s eyes lightened.
“So, whaddya think?” Robert said. “Want to plant flags with your old gramps?”
Jack answered with the start of a smile. “Yes, please.”
“Oh, kiddo,” Meredith said, and sniffed twice. “Did you have a little accident?”
Audra sighed. After three apple juices in the ER, liquid Tylenol to help him sleep, and water to wash it down, his poor bladder had hit its max.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Meredith told him.
“Are you sure?” Audra said. “You really don’t have to.”
“It’s no trouble.” Meredith was already leading Jack to his room.
On any other day Audra would feel uncomfortable leaving that chore to someone else. But Meredith was family, and honestly, part of Audra’s brain was still in sleep mode.
“Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?” she asked Robert. “Juice, water?”
“OJ if you got it.”
She poured him a glassful that he drank in a few swallows. Then he launched into small talk, about a new construction manager and the unusual weather—springtime in Portland usually meant ten types of rain. Audra followed only half the conversation, her head aching from lack of sleep.
Not long after, Meredith returned with Jack, now dressed in jeans, a rugby shirt, and his favorite hoodie. He slipped on his shoes and Meredith double-knotted the laces.
“Last chance to change your mind about coming,” Robert said to Audra. “We can wait if you’d like time to get ready.”
Audra envisioned the cemetery, the type of site she hadn’t been to since the funeral. So much green in that rolling grass, cultivated by countless tears.
Before she could decline, Robert smiled. “Next time maybe.”
“Maybe,” she said, grateful he played along as though the possibility were real.
10
Apprehension hung over London, thick as a show curtain preparing to drop. On the train to work that morning, Vivian was shaken by the worry in people’s eyes, the pleats in their faces. Not in the children, of course, whose priorities hadn’t been swayed from games of marbles and cravings for sweets. Rather, the adults old enough to recall firsthand the blistering devastation of war.
“It doesn’t start with an explosion.” Mr. Harrington stared vacantly out the shop window. “It bears far more subtlety. A simmer beneath the surface, as if bringing broth to a boil.”