Callie’s Last Dance

52.

WE’RE IN THE recovery room. Callie’s awake, on her side, slightly elevated. There are drainage tubes in her back. Rose is helping her drink some sort of smelly tea through a straw.

“What is it?” Callie asks. “Skunk cabbage?”

“Birch bark,” Rose says.

She looks at me and says, “Like your great-great-grandfather used to drink.”

“Who, the pirate?”

I wink at Callie.

Rose says, “Emmett Love.”

“Who?”

Rose touches my shoulder, and my mind feels like it’s flooded with images. Horses, guns, Indians-every western movie or TV show I’ve ever seen, I think.

Except in all those westerns I watched as a kid I don’t remember seeing a dancing bear.

“Look up these names,” Rose says. “You come from special stock.”

“Right.”

She suddenly flashes a stern look.

“Don’t squander your heritage, Donovan.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Did I just ma’am a thirty-year-old?

“You’re beautiful, Callie,” Rose says.

“You’re the pretty one,” Callie says.

“I do what I can. But you’d give Gentry a run for her money.”

“Really?” Callie says.

“Really.”

“Who’s Gentry?”

Rose smiles.

When Callie’s done with the tea, Rose runs her fingertips up and down Callie’s legs.

Callie’s eyes are focused on mine, which is how I can tell the moment she starts crying.

I touch her forehead. “Are you in pain?”

“No. I’m wiggling my toes.”