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It’s about a mile to the mansion, and we don’t say anything the whole way. We stop when we reach the gate. “I’d better say goodbye here,” I tell him. “Listen, David, I really am sorry.”

He stares into my eyes like he’s trying to read my soul. The way he looks at me makes me feel all warm inside.

“Mira, I won’t lie to you. I do want to kiss you. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since I saw you at your father’s fundraiser two weeks ago. I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not stupid,” I say, my eyes fixed on his. I can’t look away. It’s as though some invisible magnetic force is drawing me to him. I feel excited and frightened all at the same time. And then reality hits me. I break away from his gaze.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to kiss me—”

“Then you do want me to?”

His expression turns hopeful, and seeing him this way crushes me.

“I can’t, David.”

“But why not?”

“It’s complicated, okay?”

The hope in his eyes vanishes, and the wounded expression from the record store returns. He nods as if he understands, but says nothing. Instead he holds out the paper bag with the record.

“Thank you,” I say, taking it from him.

“Can I see you again?”

“Sure,” I tell him immediately.

“Tomorrow?”

I can barely hide my groan. “I have an appointment, actually.”

“I’ll take you.”

“To my appointment? But you don’t even know what it’s for or where it is.”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs indifferently. “Anyway, I’ve got the day off.”

I start to decline his invitation, but how else would I get there? Then I think of how uncomfortable it would be having Jordan along as an escort. Not to mention what he would tell my father.

“All right. Thanks. Can you pick me up at nine?”

“Sure.”

As David walks away he glances back at me over his shoulder and gives a little wave. I find myself wishing more than anything that I
could
kiss him.

“Mira, is that you?”

I step through the front door to the mansion and spot Papa sitting at the dining table. He must have just got home, because he’s still wearing his gloves.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“Out walking,” I tell him. He glances at the package under my arm. “Oh, I found this record shop and picked something up.”

“Records?” Papa sounds amused. “I didn’t know anyone still listened to them.”

“You have that old record player still, don’t you? I think I saw it in your office once.”

“It’s there in one of the cabinets. You’re welcome to it.”

I tell him thanks and start for the kitchen. Papa’s home office is at the back of the house, and the quickest way there is through the kitchen. As I walk past him, I happen to glance at the papers lying between his hands, papers with the hospital’s logo on them—and Mama’s name printed in bold letters at the top.

“What are those?” I ask.

Papa shifts a hand over them, spreading out his fingers. “Nothing,” he says. “You saw your mother again today?”

“This morning before my therapy appointment.”

“Any change?”

“No. Not yet.”
  I slip my hands into my hoodie pocket. I don’t even realize I’ve done it until my fingers find each other. “Did you make it over there today?”

Papa’s stare remains on the papers in front of him. “Hmm? What was that?” he asks, distracted.

“I asked if you’d gone to the hospital today.”

“Yes, I was there.”

“But did you see Mama?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are still fixed on those papers. “What’s the point, Mira?” he says finally.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve gone just about every day. Why?”

“Mama needs me,” I say.

Papa glances up at me. He looks tired. Worn out. “She’s in a coma, Mira.”

It’s the way he says it that irritates me, the resignation in his voice. I try to bite my tongue, but I can’t keep silent. “Maybe she didn’t have to be,” I tell him.

His expression changes. I can see the patronizing doubt in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“The Trazodone.”

“What about the Trazodone? Didn’t you confirm the test results with Dr. Zimmerman?” Papa rolls his eyes. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t believe the blood tests. You think she didn’t take a sedative that night.”

“She didn’t. And she didn’t give herself the insulin either.”

“Mira, how could you possibly know that?”

I don’t answer him. He never did understand me. Why should now be any different?

“Oh, I see,” continues Papa. “You can read your mother’s thoughts, is that it? Her memory reveals that she didn’t take any sleeping pills or insulin, and yet the blood tests confirm, without any doubt, that she did.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. After a minute or so, he speaks again. His voice is subdued, as if the words are difficult to say. “Dr. Zimmerman says she will probably never recover.”

His words hit me like a boxer’s fist. Of course I already knew it. I, more than anyone, know how much damage Mama suffered that night. But maybe somewhere deep inside, I was hoping for a miracle.

Papa stares at his hands. If I didn’t know him better, I’d swear his eyes were tearing up. After a moment, he looks up at me, but his eyes are dry. “Mira, we need to discuss our options.”

“What options?”

“It’s just a matter of time before she—before your mother’s body stops functioning. Why prolong the inevitable?”

“What are you talking about?” I point at the papers beneath Papa’s hand. “What are those? They have Mama’s name on them.”

He hesitates, then lifts the top sheet and hands it to me. I see now what they are, but I can hardly believe it. “Termination of Life Support? No! You can’t!”

He rises from the chair and faces me, his expression pleading. “This has taken its toll on you, Mira. It’s the humane thing to do.”

The space between us feels like miles. I see the sadness in his eyes and think of what Dr. Walsh said, that deep down he’s hurting as much as I am. But to terminate life support? If he really cared about Mama, or about me, he could never do something like that. Could he?

I hold out the paper to him. “You’ve already signed it.”

He takes it, laying it carefully on top of the others, and then rests his hand there.

“Don’t,” I say. Grief and anger swell in my throat, constricting my vocal chords. “Don’t kill Mama.”

Papa stares at me like I am a stranger to him, unrecognizable. I can see that I’ve hurt him, but I don’t care.

His reply is muted and resigned. “She’s already gone.”

I’m shaking. He continues talking to me, but his eyes refuse to meet mine. His voice becomes steady, practiced, like one of his political speeches. Whatever trace of emotion was there before has vanished.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” he says, “but we must—”

“Please, Papa.”

“—move on, Mira. Don’t you see?”

“Papa, listen to me.”

“Be adult about this.”

“No—”

“It’s time to let go.”

“NO!”

My outburst takes Papa by surprise. His body stiffens in response, his fists clenching at his sides. But I’m not frightened.

“She’s still in there! I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I’ve felt her, seen her—her mind, I mean.”

“Mira—”

“Please, Papa. You have to believe me.” Tears spring from my eyes. I try to fight them, but the battle is already lost. “Just give her more time,
please
. She wants to live.”

“That’s enough, Mira!”

Papa’s fist comes down on the table so hard that the flower vase in the center wobbles precariously until it finally settles back into place. We both notice him in the same moment—Jordan standing in the entryway. How long has he been there? He glances at the papers on the table, but says nothing. He just turns and walks into the living room.

Jordan’s brief presence somehow quells the tension between Papa and me.

“I’m sorry,” Papa says, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. “You’re right, of course. All this pressure—your mother—the investigation—those relentless reporters—it’s all just getting to me, I suppose.” He looks at me with an apologetic expression. “I’ll just file these in my office for now. There’s no rush. I won’t do anything until you’re ready.”

He takes a few steps away from me toward the entryway, but then he stops. “Maybe all we need is a good night’s rest and a day off. Hmm? Why don’t you and I take a drive up the coast tomorrow, like we used to do when you were little? I could clear my schedule.”

I remember those drives, though they were not always pleasant. What I remember most is Mama and Papa bickering in the front seat.

Composing myself, I pick up a linen napkin from one of the place settings on the table and wipe the moisture from my cheeks. “I can’t,” I tell him. “I’ve got other plans.”

“Plans? With who?”

I have to think for a second. I can’t tell him about the Institute. He’d pepper me with questions and insist on sending Jordan to accompany me.

“A friend from school,” which isn’t a lie. “We’re going shopping,” which is. “Of course, if you want me to cancel—”

“No, don’t cancel your excursion on my account, but maybe I should send Jordan with you.”

I give him the ‘you’ve-got-to-be-kidding’ glare.

“All right, but at least promise me you’ll take your phone with you. I can’t stand not being able to contact you when I need to.”

“I promise,” I tell him.

“And let’s plan to do something together this weekend. I think you and I both would benefit from a little R&R.”

Papa turns away and joins Jordan in the living room. They start talking in voices too low for me to understand. I head for the kitchen, which is empty this time of night. Its stainless steel appliances gleam, and the marble tile on the floor shines. It’s hard to believe that anyone actually cooks in here.

Once through the kitchen, I continue down the hall to my father’s office. I don’t know why he calls it that. He hardly ever uses it anymore, not since he resigned from Rawley. Now he spends most of his time at campaign headquarters.

I flip on the light switch, and the single overhead lamp illuminates the spacious room. Dark wood paneling covers three of the walls, and the fourth is nothing but floor to ceiling book shelves and cabinets. In the center of the room sits Papa’s desk, formidable black mahogany carved with Aztec-like designs. A statue of a bald eagle in flight is perched on one corner while an antique Tiffany lamp sits on the other.

It’s been at least a year or more since I’ve been in here, and even then it was just to fetch a book from the shelf that my father asked me to find. But even so, it isn’t difficult to locate what I’ve come for.

I wipe the layer of dust off the record player cover with a paper towel from the kitchen. Then I set it on Papa’s desk and plug it into the wall. I don’t know where his old records are anymore. Probably hidden away and forgotten in a box or drawer somewhere. Slipping the black vinyl disc from the cover and setting it on the turntable, I lower the needle into place and turn it on. As the LP starts to spin, I hear a few faint crackles; the sound is odd, as if I’m calling the artists from their graves to bring back the beauty that’s been gone for too long.

Then…the opening prelude to Les Misérables begins. Not the brisk, powerful theme I’m used to hearing, but a slow, lilting melody. The richness and depth of the notes thrill me. I close my eyes and imagine myself sitting in the front row beside the orchestra pit. When the voices begin, the poetry of the French lyrics melt into my soul, and I realize that David was right. This is an entirely different experience than anything I’ve ever known before.

Suddenly it hits me all at once—the music, Mama, those forms. I crumple to the floor beside Papa’s desk and let the tears fall until long after the artists have returned to their graves.