Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [82]
Malene’s house had been full of people coming and going for those three weeks. Her father stayed most days, just sitting by Alex’s bed, watching over him, counting his breaths when he slept, reading him the latest issue of Farm Life when he was awake. Oris showed up at breakfast and didn’t leave until the sun was firmly set. Trina came over most evenings, played cards when Alex felt like it, watched movies she had rented when he didn’t. Fred and Bea kept Malene’s refrigerator full of Alex’s favorites, and others from the community dropped in from time to time, some staying a while, sitting with Oris or Trina, laughing at jokes, offering prayers, others dropping off casseroles or comic books, standing awkwardly at Alex’s bedroom door, uncertain of what to say or how close to get.
The day after Alex’s initial assessment with the hospice nurse and social worker, Roger had gone home, packed his suitcase, and moved in with Malene. There had been no conversation between him and his ex-wife, no discussion of boundaries or what it meant for him to be there. They just both understood that he was not going to be far away from Malene or Alex. There was no question about where Roger Benavidez was staying.
Without telling anyone, Roger had driven to Colorado and all over Denver trying to find Angel. He had made phone calls to every sheriff’s office in New Mexico and the neighboring state, searched on the Internet for websites or chat rooms where she might show up, called rehab facilities and social service agencies, begging for information about his daughter. In all that time, he had not found any trace of her. Malene knew he was searching, but she never asked what he had found. She understood that when Roger knew anything, had any news, he would tell her. Beyond that, hearing about his futile search only unsettled her.
Alex never asked about his mother and seemed unbothered that she was not there. He seemed to have made his peace with Angel and her absence from his life long before his condition worsened. He never mentioned a desire to see her or say good-bye to her. Once, when the nurse was given a report on Alex’s anxiety and heard about his sleeplessness, she had asked the boy and his grandmother if he was anxious because he did not have his mother with him. Alex had smiled and answered, “She’s fine. I’m not worried about her. Some people just need to find their own way.” Malene had shrugged upon hearing his response. “He seems to know himself and his mother pretty well,” she had explained.
When he was asked about his worries and fears, he had only talked about the town and Father George and Trina and the fire, claiming that some people, some towns, needed help, needed to be pushed along. Not realizing how serious a matter this was to the young boy, Roger, Malene, and the hospice staff all patted him on his legs or on the top of his head and spoke in chorus, saying, “It’ll be okay,” or, “That’s too much for you to worry about.” But it did worry the boy, and it was all he really wanted to talk about.
Trina would listen to his concerns, tell him what she knew and how she felt, but the door to his room was always closed during those conversations, and no one ever knew what the girl accused of starting the fire told him. Once Alex learned that Father George was packed up and leaving town, he seemed to ask fewer questions, and his restlessness turned into a kind of quiet, albeit unhappy, acceptance.
Malene