Some Quiet Place

Maggie’s. Same beige paint, same curtains, same tiled floor, same cheap TV nailed to the wall. The thought of Maggie causes the newly fixed wall of nothingness to twinge.
    I fold my hands on my stomach and face Sarah. I decide to be straight with her.
    “You’re leaving tomorrow night.”
    She gives a little jerk, her gaze darting to the doorway as if Tim will be standing there, glaring murderously at the two of us. “The doctor decided to keep you overnight for observation,” she informs me, unwilling to discuss it. “You only have some scrapes and bruises. You were weak for a while there, but they say you’re healing extraordinarily fast.” She purses her lips, concentrating on the floor. “Just like last time.” She says it so quietly I’m not sure she means for me to hear.
    A pipe in the wall drips. A bird lands on the sill outside the window. We both look at the little creature. It’s a kind I’ve never seen before, all green and blue and black.
    “They usually don’t make it this far north,” Sarah murmurs, her lined face suddenly alight with awe. “Especially this time of year.”
    “What kind is it?” I shift to get a better angle of her.
    She doesn’t take her eyes off the bird. It’s still there, washing itself, and I imagine images of the sky and of worms and eggs zipping through its little mind. “I’m pretty sure that’s a Green Jay,” Sarah tells me after another pause. “They live in Texas and some of the other southern states. They like the warm weather all year round.”
    “How do you know so much?” The bird on the sill is staring back at us now with its beady black eyes, its little neck bent to the side. The pose makes me think of Nightmare again, and my stomach clenches.
    Sarah swallows. The nervous action is audible. “It used to be a hobby of mine,” she replies softly.
    It’s something I never knew about her. How bizarre that you can know someone your entire life, see their most hidden pains and hopes, and not know the tiniest detail about them. If I had done things differently, if she had been a slightly different person, if I had been a different person, maybe everything could have been better.
    Careful, Elizabeth, it almost sounds like you’re regretting something , I can practically hear Fear say to me. But he’s not here. I don’t know if he will ever be back. An image of the desperation in his eyes, the blood spurting from that hole, shoves its way into my head. Shuddering, a bitter taste in my mouth, I focus on the bird. It’s fluffing its wings now, spreading them out, showing the bright colors off. Vain little thing. But it’s truly admirable, its stamina and determination. Few others would leave behind everything they knew to venture into the unknown. What was so different about this bird that it would abandon the warm breezes of Texas and fly hundreds of miles across the country, just to arrive here, at my window? What was the purpose? Just because it could?
    “I’m going home.” Sarah’s announcement doesn’t surprise me, of course, but it does come out of nowhere, like she pulled it out of the air, magic.
    I think about this. She isn’t venturing into the unknown, exactly, but she is taking flight. It seems unjust that no one will care, after everything she’s gone through. No one will tell her story. Not her, not Tim. A few in Edson may notice her absence and gossip about it for a while, but eventually, she’ll be forgotten. Maybe she wants it that way.
    But I won’t forget.
    She seems to expect me to say something. Words that will make her feel brave, that will make everything all right. I told her once that the past can’t be changed, but the future can. She married Tim, she lost the love of a daughter, she spent years in isolation and misery. But her story isn’t finished, and for once she’s picked up a pen.
    “Go,” I say to her, smiling. It feels strange on my face, but the sight of it doesn’t frighten or embitter her. Sarah nods, slowly, hands tightly clasped. As I watch, her fingers unlatch, one by one, until they’re lying loosely in her lap.
    Voices drift by the doorway, two nurses talking. Sarah glances toward them, then back at me. She nods to herself once more and stands. There’s a stain on her jeans that looks like gravy. “Owen’s men haven’t been able to find the person that attacked you. They’re still looking, I guess. They want to ask you some questions once you’ve recovered. I didn’t let the