She doesn’t need to elaborate or clarify. Both women know there is only one day that matters now, the day The Dying started.
Cilla’s eyes lose their focus and the sadness reappears, so Miranda says, “You don’t have to tell me. I understand.”
The other woman’s gaze sharpens again and she says, “It’s not that. I don’t mind telling you. I heard all about you from George, so it’s only fair.”
“You did?” Miranda asks, surprised.
“Yes, I suppose Tom must have explained it when he told George about you. He told me so I would know what you’d been through before we came.”
“Oh.”
“Are you upset that I know? Or that he told me?”
Miranda waves it off. “It’s not that. It’s just odd to hear that. I suppose because I’ve been a secret for so long, it’s strange to know that people know all about me that I didn’t even know existed.”
“I suppose that would be…what’s the word I’m looking for…jarring maybe?”
That makes Miranda smile, since Cilla is here to learn about putting up food in jars. “Maybe that’s a good word. Do you mind telling me about you?”
Cilla glances around, finds the two chairs where Miranda often sits and puts her feet up. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
The chairs creak as they sit, but Cilla doesn’t delay. Instead, she says, “I lost my daughters and I would have died too. George was my neighbor and he saved my life.”
“Really?” Miranda asks, surprised. Then she remembers the important part of what Cilla said and says, “I’m so sorry about your children. So sorry.”
Her eyes a little shiny, Cilla nods. “Thank you, but in a way, I’m glad it’s over for them. For them it’s done and they had only a moment of fear. I can’t imagine how I could keep them happy through all this and really, that’s the biggest thing. Happiness.”
There are no words in Miranda’s vocabulary that can help her formulate a response. Cilla’s tone is still so even, so modulated. Even the shine in her eyes never advances to actual tears. And the words themselves. Death is better than what they have now?
Luckily, Miranda is spared from having to find the words because Cilla continues. “They didn’t die on the day. It was almost a week later, before everyone really understood how things would need to be. The police came. I was doing laundry in the kitchen. My girls were in the living room. When the police burst in, that was it. They never got a chance to grab them or anything. It was just…over.”
Miranda’s hand had risen to her mouth during the calm recitation of facts. It’s horrifying. In her mind, she replays the scene with that girl across the street from her London home and the men that came and killed her with a mere touch.
“I’m so sorry, Cilla. So very, very sorry.”
Her gaze refocuses on Miranda’s face and she pats her knee. “We’re all sorry for everyone, but thank you.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “By the time I ran from the kitchen, George was outside and yelling for the police to come out. I suppose it was lucky they hadn’t been anywhere else first. Someone had called in and said we were in our house. They had no idea that even scaring us like that would kill us. They left. I think they were horrified by what had happened. George took care of my girls for me. Then he hid me.”
Miranda thinks back to Sharon and Tom. Both men took care of the dead and then, the living. So similar.
“You said you were a doctor. Did you live around here?”
“Not really. Both George and I worked at the same hospital, but George’s mother had a house just outside the nearby village, so we came here when it became too difficult in town.”
“Like us.”
“Very much the same, only without the grand house.”
“So George is a doctor too. How odd. Tom is too.”
At that Cilla’s eyes cloud a little and she looks away, “Yes, I know.”
“Will you hug me?” Miranda is almost surprised at how the words simply pop out of her. But it is, in the end, exactly what she most needs.
They rise from the chairs. Cilla hugs her and they stand there for a long while, simply enjoying the feeling of being hugged by another female. It’s a strange thing to realize, but Miranda has missed such simple touches, kind touches unburdened by subtext.
Eventually, even that ends. The basement feels chillier than it has in a long time when Miranda steps away. Gradually, Cilla’s expression shifts, growing almost sad.
“What is it?” Miranda asks.
Though she’s not sure what she expects to hear, she doesn't expect what Cilla says next, particularly after the conversation they just had. She leans close and whispers, “You have to find a way to get out of here, Miranda. You have to get away and do it soon.”
Charlotte
Her mother’s hand finds hers and clutches Charlotte’s fingers too tightly. They’re closing another of the units meant for the younger, single women. The last tenant has already left the building and entered the final surviving unit for such women. The medical attendants are close by, each of them monitoring their charge’s vitals via tablet for bad changes.
It’s been so long. Years. Charlotte should be just another seventeen-year-old, looking forward to prom and thinking about college with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. Instead, she is here.
And now they know there will likely never be a day when it’s safe to leave.
The units have been emptying because of despair. Just like fear, it causes women to turn their faces upward and die. It’s not due to any change in their circumstances here, not because their treatment is any less cordial. It’s because the years of medical testing have found nothing.
There is no disease that can be found. There is no source for The Dying that can be isolated, cured,
