“I’m here to see Mary—” Wendy’s voice breaks, and she hates that it does, wishing it were stronger. “Mary White Dog.”
She takes pleasure in saying Mary’s full name, her true name, not the one given to her here. The nurse frowns before turning away, leaving Wendy alone in the entryway, and Wendy smiles to herself. She makes herself look up, at the railing running along the second floor where the private rooms are. She and Mary snuck up there so many times. She could almost close her eyes, trace her steps through this place and not get lost. She keeps her eyes open, forces her hands down at her side.
“If you’ll follow me, please.” The nurse returns and gestures, and Wendy obeys.
Her gait feels oddly stiff, as though all at once she’s forgotten what walking means. Even though she knows he isn’t here, she just can’t stop herself expecting Jamieson to loom out of one of the doorways and catch her in a meaty hand. Ned had offered to come with her, for support, but she insisted on coming alone.
“If I don’t face this now,” she’d told him, “I never will. It’s important.”
He’d looked concerned, but let her go, hiring a car to take her. Wendy had almost told the driver to turn around several times, and again at the gates she’d almost panicked and fled. Now, as she follows the nurse, Wendy’s fear shifts to something else. There’s a sense of dislocation, as if she’s floating. She isn’t afraid; she feels almost giddy, and that seems wrong.
She glances at the faces of the patients they pass. Most keep their heads lowered, not even looking up as she goes by. She remembers doing the same, ignoring the outside world as a matter of survival. If they did look up, would any of them recognize her? And would it make their lives better or worse? Would her being here give them hope they might leave one day, too, or would they simply resent her for having freedom they do not?
Lucky, she tries to remind herself how lucky she is, how little separates her from the patients around her. After everything, John didn’t give up on her. How many of these patients have brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, still hoping for their cure?
The nurse opens the door to one of the small sitting rooms, and Wendy’s heart takes a moment to forget how to beat. The room is empty save for Mary sitting in one of two chairs by the window, silhouetted against the bright winter sky. How should Wendy act? What will she say? All the ease between them has fled from her mind, as though they’re meeting again for the first time. Will Mary resent her? What will they talk about, now that they no longer know every single detail of each other’s lives day to day?
At that moment, Mary looks up from the embroidery hoop in her lap, and her face splits into a smile—sun breaking through the clouds—showing the gap between her teeth, and Wendy’s fear drops away. She forgets the nurse standing in the doorway, forgets everything and runs to Mary. They collide halfway across the room, crushing each other in a hug, breathless and laughing, both trying to talk at once.
“I’m so glad you—”
“I didn’t know if—”
They stop, staring at each other in wonder, and laugh again. When Wendy looks around, the nurse is gone, and they’re alone. She squeezes Mary’s hands, the calluses and warm skin familiar under her fingertips, and leads Mary back to the chairs. They sit, knees almost touching, and Wendy keeps hold of Mary’s hands. Now that she is here, she never wants to let go again.
“Tell me everything. How are they treating you? Are you all right?” The words rush out; she can’t stop staring at Mary, scarcely able to believe she’s real.
“Nothing ever changes.” Wendy’s heart drops, but Mary’s lips shape a mischievous expression, and there’s a glint in her eye. Wendy’s heart turns again, a complicated feeling. She thinks of Mary sneaking through the corridors, pulling off little thefts, all the trouble she might be getting into while avoiding getting caught. She should be here by Mary’s side.
“But look at you, a married woman now.” Mary’s words break into Wendy’s thoughts, and something catches in her chest. She blinks rapidly, and Mary shifts their hands so now she is the one holding Wendy, the pressure of her thumbs steadying Wendy so she lets out a shaky breath.
Mary leans forward, their foreheads touch, and the world rights itself. Wendy lets her weight rest there for a moment. She closes her eyes, feeling the solidity of Mary. She opens her eyes, breathes out and sits back, only slightly dizzy now.
A married woman. The past few months have been a blur. Wendy is scarcely used to it herself. She feared it at first, then began to think it could be something she wants—a family, not like Michael and John, but one all of her own, chosen and not formed by blood. But even as she and Ned learn more of each other, she cannot shake the sense of something missing in her life, something she could not name. Until here, now.
This. Mary’s hands in hers. The thought frightens her, too big to fully contemplate. She wants, but she isn’t certain exactly what it is she wants, and so she pushes the feeling down as it tries to rise up in her like an all-consuming tide.
“Tell me how it is with you,” Mary says. “Are you all right? How does your husband treat you? Do you love him?”
“I scarcely know him.” Wendy pulls her hands back, folds them in her lap. The weight of all her doubt and uncertainty, lifted a moment before, returns. Words pile up behind her teeth, but Wendy can’t think of how
