SEVENTEEN
Love is a vibrant, living thing. It starts small, a faint heartbeat, the idea that becomes thought, the thought that becomes feeling. Then, comes the breath of beginning, the form and mass of that small creature beginning to grow. Love is a creature that only grows when it is nurtured, when it is given limitless cultivation. When it is permitted the infinite possibility of hope.
It exists inside us all. We hold it, cradle it, until it is time to fly. That small love can soar, fly into the ether, become part of the great cosmic well that connects us all. Or it can fester, rot and not move an inch from that first idea to the last hope.
What love—thriving, living love—can never do, is die. That is the truth of this moment. That is the reality that I will cling to.
Rhea is surrounded by family. Cousins, parents, her sister, all of us watching her take in every farewell. She gives, receives kisses that linger, holds tight as she can to necks as she is hugged. It must be chaos for her. It must make her dizzy, all that filter of comfort, of love and fleetingly, I wonder what this would be like, this dying moment, had she never been taken from that orphanage. I know my life, all of our lives would have been duller, the color of our world paler without her in it.
Booker, Adriana, Alessandra, join Claire in their goodbyes, followed by the sweet tears my mother and father leave on Rhea’s pillow. Then there is only my aunt and uncle waiting for Quinn to say whatever it is he needs. He is silent, brief, one hand against her face, his gentle kiss on her forehead and he whispers to her, something that makes her smile, something that gives her peace.
And then, just like that, he walks away. No backward glance. No look at me to see if I want him at my side.
“Sayo?” Rhea asks and I go to her, nestle at her side so that she rests against my chest, like she did when she was two. Like she did when she was still a baby, still willing to let me hold her. “I hear your heartbeat,” she says, rubbing her ear against my chest.
A glance at the monitor, that slow beep that only grows dimmer and I squeeze her. “I hear yours.”
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice has grown thin as though the rasp in her tone has weakened her right along with the cancer and the treatment.
“Sure,” I say, more confident than I feel. Rhea’s breathing quickens, but she still manages to lean back, looking up at me as though she’ll find the truth. As though I have the answers she needs. “Mama cried when I asked her,” she whispers, like she doesn’t want Carol to hear her. “She still thinks I’m a baby, but you Sayo… Sayo, you don’t lie to me.”
“Never.” We turn toward each other, face to face, hands held together and I block out the sounds around me, my uncle’s low crying, Carol’s litany of a soft prayer and the constant beep of the monitor. I only see this beautiful face, look at every curve, every dip, every shadow. I want them inside my mind, living there so Rhea will never die. “What… what do you want to know?”
Her eyes are the color of chocolate, the exactly hue of the most decadent dark chocolate, but she is sweeter. “All this,” Rhea tugs at the IV connected to her arm, points to the oxygen tube resting in her nostrils. “I won’t need any of this soon.”
“No, baby. No, you won’t.”
It was a slip she doesn’t call me on. She isn’t a baby, not really and I haven’t called her that in years, but this isn’t a moment for saving face. She’s my baby, our baby. Always will be.
“Well, what I want to know is… is… where? Where do I go, Sayo? When I leave, when it’s… time… where do I go?”
I want to tell her the truth. I want to tell her I’m not sure. I can’t be sure. I want to tell her she would be safe. She would be warm. She would be finished, but I just don’t know.
“Sayo?” Rhea touches my face, clearing the tears from my cheek. “Where do I go?”
I try like hell to remember precisely how her small hand feels against my cheek and the smell of strawberry lotion on her fingers. Her skin shines luminous against the fluorescent light. “Oh, Kiddo,” I say, unable to keep my voice from shaking or tears from building in my eyes. Rhea doesn’t seem to notice either. “Everywhere. You go everywhere.”
One smile. The brief twitch of her mouth moving up and the shudder of her breath as it weakens.
I kiss her then, put everything I cannot say into that soft touch. It will be the last. My sweet girl. My little kiddo.
The monitor dips, the peeps slowing and I leave the bed so that Carol can hold her daughter, cradle her tight. My aunt’s sobs are quiet, but still sound to me like thunder across a still sky. They breech the quiet of the moment and pierce my chest.
“Everywhere, baby,” I say, words muffled by the thickness clogging my throat. And then, the beep flat lines and there is no noise. There is nothing in that room at all except for goodbye.