May We Be Forgiven by A. M. Homes Read Free Book Online Page B

her medicines and food. Her head is bandaged from the surgery, and she looks a little like a raccoon—she’s got two black eyes.”
    “My father punched her in the eyes?” Nathaniel asks.
    “It’s bruising from the surgery.”
    In the elevator Ashley squeezes my hand so hard it hurts; she squeezes the whole way down the hall and into the ICU.
    Jane’s mother bursts into tears when the children come in.
    “Stop, you’re scaring them,” her husband says.
    “Too many, too many, too many,” the nurse says, shooing people out.
    The children are left alone with their mother
    Jane’s parents stand in the hall, glaring at me. “Son of a bitch,” the father says.
    “Let’s get some coffee,” he says to his wife.
    I press myself to the glass. Ashley takes her mother’s hand. I imagine it warm, even though it is limp; she rubs her cheek and face with it, stroking herself, giving herself her mother’s affection. Nathaniel stands next to her, crying and then stopping himself from crying. A little later, when Ashley’s head is on her mother’s stomach, she looks up smiling and points to her mother’s stomach. “It gurgled,” she says, through the glass, as though a gurgle is a sign of improvement.
    When the nurse needs to do something to Jane, I take the children to the cafeteria.
    “What happens next?” Nathaniel asks, as he’s eating a second lunch.
    “You should spend as much time with your mom as you want, let her know you love her, and know how much she loves you.”
    When Ashley excuses herself to go to the bathroom, Nathaniel leans over.
    “Did you fuck my mother?”
    I don’t answer.
    “She was into you; she used to tease my father by talking about you.”
    Again, I say nothing.
    “Where is Dad?” Ashley asks when she gets back to the table.
    “He’s here.”
    “This hospital?” Nate asks.
    I nod. “Do you want to see him?”
    “Should we see him?” Ashley asks.
    “Entirely up to you.”
    “I need to think he’s dead,” Nate says. “That’s the only way I can make sense of it. He did this and then turned the gun on himself.”
    “There was no gun,” I say.
    “You know what I mean. Why didn’t you stop him, why didn’t you kill him?” Nate asks.
    Why didn’t I?

    A ll too familiar with the hospital layout, I lead the children to the Emergency Room. George is parked in a back hallway, bound to a chair, slumped like he’s been sleeping for days, his face roughened with stubble.
    “Either we sedate him or he’s out of control,” the nurse remarks, spotting me.
    “These are the children,” I say, “Ashley and Nathaniel.”
    “He ate a good lunch, and we’re awaiting his disposition,” the nurse says, slightly more chipper.
    “Is that like his mood?” Ashley asks.
    “It’s paperwork telling us where he’ll go from here,” the nurse says.
    George opens his eyes.
    “The children are here,” I say.
    “Hi, Dad,” Ashley says. Nathaniel says nothing.
    “Sorry,” George says.
    There is an awkward silence. We all stare at the floor, at the patterns in the linoleum.
    “George, I’ve been meaning to ask you, there’s a cat who scratches at the kitchen door, gray, with green eyes and a dab of white on the tail. It’s gotten into the house a couple of times. And it looks like no one feeds it, so I bought some kibble.”
    “That’s Muffin,” George says. “Our cat.”
    “Since when do you have a cat?”
    “Years. Her litter box is in the guest bathroom—you’d better clean it.”
    “She likes canned food,” Ashley says, softly.
    “What were you thinking?” Nathaniel asks his father.
    “No idea,” George says. “What day is it?”

    W e go back to Intensive Care. The doctor is there. “She’s recovering well from the procedure itself,” he says.
    “Of course she is, she’s a good girl,” her father says.
    “There’s still no sign of activity. Have you thought about organ donation?” the doctor asks.
    “Would that help her? A donation?” Jane’s