Page 72 of Flock
“That’s only because you honor your parents.”
He swallows, and we ride in amicable silence for a few minutes before Dominic turns into a small driveway. His headlights beam on a Cape Cod-style house with overgrown plants on the porch, most of them dying.
“Stay,” he motions at her and gets out of the car. She doesn’t say a word to me. Dominic opens the door and ushers her out with ease. I get out and he looks over his shoulder.
“No, stay, I’ll be back in a minute.”
I ignore him and scramble to the porch to open the screen door.
“Ha, I like her,” his aunt says, scanning me in the dim light from the streetlamp. Dominic curses as he holds her against him and fumbles with the keys before he hands them to me. I hold each key up until he nods at one. I twist it in the lock and walk in, turning on the closest light, and can’t help but cringe at the scattering of a few roaches on the wall. This is the house Dominic grew up in?
Dominic walks the woman to an old beige recliner, and she sighs in relief when they get there. She kicks back, and he spreads a blanket over her lap before disappearing down a hall.
“You’re looking at him the same way as the girl at the pharmacy.”
“He’s hard not to notice,” I admit truthfully, “but getting easier to ignore with his sunny disposition.”
I carefully assess the house while trying not to make it obvious what I’m doing. It’s nothing but old furniture in need of a thorough dusting, cleaning, and extermination. I don’t know how she expects to get well in an environment that’s anything but sterile, but from what she said in the car, she’s not intent on a recovery. She examines me from her chair and I return her stare, just as curious. She’s reading me, and she’s doing it with Dominic’s silver eyes. The resemblance is most definitely there. Early forties at most, I decide as I stare her down. It’s tragic. She’s too young not to fight.
“Can I get you anything? More water?”
“Please.”
I move to the kitchen and click on the overhead light. More roaches scatter, making my stomach turn. There are only a few dishes in the sink, and my skin crawls as I search the cabinets for a clean glass. I open the freezer, which reeks, and grab a few ice cubes, tossing them into the glass before turning on the tap. I set the water on the small wooden table sitting beside her. She clicks on a built-in lamp and picks up a thick leather book—a French Bible, littered with tattered bookmarks.
Dominic strolls back in with a Monday through Sunday pillbox and a plastic garbage can. He sets the pills on her table, and the can within her reach.
“All separated. Take them, Tatie, or you’ll get sicker.” He chuckles when he sees the Bible. “Too late for you, witch.”
I expect her to gasp or get indignant. Instead, she laughs with him. “If there’s a back door into heaven, maybe I’ll find it for you too.”
“Maybe I don’t agree with His politics,” Dominic says, his timbre full of mirth.
“Maybe He doesn’t agree with yours—doesn’t mean He can’t be an ally. And you forget, I know you. And stop separating my pills. I’m not an invalid.”
“You’re doing a good job getting there. Don’t drink tonight,” Dominic orders, entirely dismissing the spiritual part of the conversation. “I’m not searching the house, but if you do, you know what will happen.”
“Yeah, yeah, go,” she shoos him away. I hear the distinct clink of a bottle beneath her rocker as she adjusts her position in the seat and Dominic makes himself busy with the TV remote. He didn’t hear it, but her eyes meet mine in challenge, and I quickly decide it’s not my battle.
“Should we stay?” I ask her, genuinely concerned. All of my chemo recovery knowledge has been gained from books or soul-crushing movies, and from what I’ve gathered, people get violently ill after a round.
“Not my first time,” she says. “Go, the night is young and so are you, don’t waste it.”
“You are too,” Dominic mutters, flipping through the channels.
I walk over to where she sits and kneel down on the over-stressed carpet. I don’t know what in the hell possesses me to do it, but I do. Maybe it’s her living situation or the state she’s in. Her predominately black hair is pulled back into a braid, her olive complexion deeply etched with life, the small wrinkles around her mouth defined with remnants of her lipstick. She looks breakable, her frame meek, her under-eyes outlined by her sickness. But it’s her eyes alone that shine with her youth, the same metallic shade as her nephew. They pin me curiously as I lean in on a whisper.
“Romans 8:38-39.”
She navigates to the passage easily and to my surprise, reads it aloud.
“For I am sure that neither death nor life,” she whispers softly, “nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
She looks down at me, her eyes flitting with emotion, mainly fear. “Do you believe that’s true?”
“Those are the only verses I’ve memorized. So I guess, maybe, I want to believe it.” It’s clear as she studies me, she does too.
She looks past me at Dominic, who I can feel standing behind me. “Elle est trop belle. Trop intelligente. Mais trop jeune. Cette fille sera ta perte ...” She is too beautiful. Too smart. But too young. This girl will be your undoing.
