SUSAN? SUSAN WAS TALKING TO ME, OR, NO, NOT TO ME. TO other people. Talking about a man dressed as a woman. And something else, about Beverly Gardener. But I couldn’t hear what. And she said no one could question Zoe Hayes; Zoe Hayes was far too weak.
I listened for Molly, strained to hear her, but couldn’t. Her voice wasn’t there. Why not? Where was she? My eyes wouldn’t open, lips wouldn’t budge. A few times, I heard a man. Nick? Wasn’t he dead? I listened closely, aware that if I could hear a dead man speak, I must be dead, too. Or lingering in a place where voices echoed like dreams and dreams like voices. Drifting, I couldn’t distinguish real from imagined, alive from dead.
Then there were more than just sounds. Hands touched me. Held my fingers. Rested on my arm. Whose hands? Too big, too heavy to be Molly’s. But I couldn’t hold on to my thoughts, couldn’t connect them, so I let go of my questions and once more slipped away.