hung in the air: floral, powdery. A perfume? But whose? Not Lori's; not his mother's. Familiar, though. Something he'd smelled very recently. A window was open behind him, issuing a cool breeze. Directly across from him, the television was tuned to a rerun of Columbo, where Columbo was on vacation, wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
Am I still dreaming?
"My mother…" A woman's voice, swimming toward him in the gauzy half-light.
His eyes flickered toward the voice, as familiar as the scent. He saw the photo on the table of the three Saddlers at the water park before fully realizing where he was: My condo, my living room . It seemed he remembered very little, not least of which how he'd ended up here, on the sofa, shivering and wet and wrapped like the dead.
He turned his head, a difficult task. Just breathing was difficult. It seemed as though an invisible weight was on his chest, pressing him down—
The events from the bathroom returned, and he sat up abruptly, pushing against the sudden crushing pain in his chest. He'd been wrapped up snug in a pale blue terry cloth towel. The Shepherd's hand wasn't there—had never been there. Yet he still felt it, like a weight. Like something pushing him down.
She sat on the chair opposite: Sophie Huang from next door. The world was still somewhat blurry. He blinked until he could see her properly. She'd said something, hadn't she? He was barely able to croak, "W-what?"
"I lost my mother," she said, and brought her eyes up, looking at him intensely. "A year ago. She'd smoked for as long as I can remember. Probably even smoked through her pregnancy, for all I know. Maybe that's why I'm so fucked up."
Sophie put the tips of her fingers to her naked lips in a gesture of surprise. "Sorry," she said, with a self-conscious downward glance. "TMI. Anyway, she hadn't been sleeping well for months. Stayed up all night watching those late-night infomercials, hoping they'd put her to sleep. Of course they didn't, she just ended up with an apartment full of unopened junk. Then one night, she fell asleep in her chair with a lit cigarette. The medical examiner said she probably died in her sleep of asphyxiation before she could feel herself burning to death. Cold comfort. I'd always said that ratty old chair was a fire hazard." She uttered a morbid chuckle.
Owen wondered how Sophie could manage to talk about it so calmly. It must still have been painful, with her mother only in her grave a year. He let the silence draw out, unsure how to respond. Finally, he managed to say, "Sorry for your loss."
Her sudden laughter startled him. After a moment, he realized what she'd found funny: she'd said the same thing to him when they'd met in the mail room. He grinned. It would have been too painful to laugh, even if he'd found it funny himself.
"There was water all over the floor when I came in," she said, when her laughter died. "I thought maybe the dishwasher was leaking; mine does that sometimes. Then I saw the bathroom door open…" She gave him a look so intense he wanted to shrink away from her. "I thought you were dead. You were so pale, you weren't breathing or anything. Just floating there. It's funny, you looked so peaceful."
They sat in silence a moment.
"I tried to kill myself once," she said, matter-of-factly.
"I wasn't trying to kill myself."
"Of course you weren't. I never said you were." Judging by her tone, though, she didn't believe him. But pressing the issue would have made it seem more like he was lying, so he let it go. She'd just saved his life; by how much, he wasn't sure. Now was hardly the time to quibble.
"It was just after my mother died," she said, and for a second he had no idea what she'd meant. His thoughts were disjointed; he couldn't seem to focus. An aftereffect of having nearly drowned, he supposed, and determined to try harder.
"Couple of weeks, I think." She was looking off at the big windows that faced the Harbourfront as she spoke, at the lights of all the other
Am I still dreaming?
"My mother…" A woman's voice, swimming toward him in the gauzy half-light.
His eyes flickered toward the voice, as familiar as the scent. He saw the photo on the table of the three Saddlers at the water park before fully realizing where he was: My condo, my living room . It seemed he remembered very little, not least of which how he'd ended up here, on the sofa, shivering and wet and wrapped like the dead.
He turned his head, a difficult task. Just breathing was difficult. It seemed as though an invisible weight was on his chest, pressing him down—
The events from the bathroom returned, and he sat up abruptly, pushing against the sudden crushing pain in his chest. He'd been wrapped up snug in a pale blue terry cloth towel. The Shepherd's hand wasn't there—had never been there. Yet he still felt it, like a weight. Like something pushing him down.
She sat on the chair opposite: Sophie Huang from next door. The world was still somewhat blurry. He blinked until he could see her properly. She'd said something, hadn't she? He was barely able to croak, "W-what?"
"I lost my mother," she said, and brought her eyes up, looking at him intensely. "A year ago. She'd smoked for as long as I can remember. Probably even smoked through her pregnancy, for all I know. Maybe that's why I'm so fucked up."
Sophie put the tips of her fingers to her naked lips in a gesture of surprise. "Sorry," she said, with a self-conscious downward glance. "TMI. Anyway, she hadn't been sleeping well for months. Stayed up all night watching those late-night infomercials, hoping they'd put her to sleep. Of course they didn't, she just ended up with an apartment full of unopened junk. Then one night, she fell asleep in her chair with a lit cigarette. The medical examiner said she probably died in her sleep of asphyxiation before she could feel herself burning to death. Cold comfort. I'd always said that ratty old chair was a fire hazard." She uttered a morbid chuckle.
Owen wondered how Sophie could manage to talk about it so calmly. It must still have been painful, with her mother only in her grave a year. He let the silence draw out, unsure how to respond. Finally, he managed to say, "Sorry for your loss."
Her sudden laughter startled him. After a moment, he realized what she'd found funny: she'd said the same thing to him when they'd met in the mail room. He grinned. It would have been too painful to laugh, even if he'd found it funny himself.
"There was water all over the floor when I came in," she said, when her laughter died. "I thought maybe the dishwasher was leaking; mine does that sometimes. Then I saw the bathroom door open…" She gave him a look so intense he wanted to shrink away from her. "I thought you were dead. You were so pale, you weren't breathing or anything. Just floating there. It's funny, you looked so peaceful."
They sat in silence a moment.
"I tried to kill myself once," she said, matter-of-factly.
"I wasn't trying to kill myself."
"Of course you weren't. I never said you were." Judging by her tone, though, she didn't believe him. But pressing the issue would have made it seem more like he was lying, so he let it go. She'd just saved his life; by how much, he wasn't sure. Now was hardly the time to quibble.
"It was just after my mother died," she said, and for a second he had no idea what she'd meant. His thoughts were disjointed; he couldn't seem to focus. An aftereffect of having nearly drowned, he supposed, and determined to try harder.
"Couple of weeks, I think." She was looking off at the big windows that faced the Harbourfront as she spoke, at the lights of all the other
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