“What are you talking about?” he says.

“Me leaving,” I shoot back. “Now that Della is awake.”

Kit looks at his feet and shakes his head. “Helena, that’s not what I was going to say at all. I’m asking you to stay. For a little bit longer at least. Until Della is well enough herself. I know that’s unfair, but I’m asking you anyway.”

I open and close my mouth in shock. Before Kit walked in the door, I was on my second vodka. Just vodka, not vodka with something. Now, I am paying the price, steeped in thoughts that are doggy paddling around my brain uselessly.

“You want me to what now?”

“Stay. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

I turn my face away; my eyes hunt for my glass of vodka. Had there been anything left? Just ice cubes maybe, swirling around in their own sweat.

“She doesn’t want me here, Kit. I saw her face.”

“Ahhh, Helena. Come on now. She just woke up from a coma and remembered she had a baby. We had to tell her that she couldn’t have any more.”

I cover my face with my hands. I’m glad I wasn’t there for that part.

“You know,” I say. “I’m surprised by you sometimes. I really am.”

His lips pull tight as he gazes at me through his heavy lashes.

“You seem to see everything and nothing at all.”

I stand up, taking my time. Making sure he sees how casually angry I am. I’m wearing leather leggings I found in Della’s box of Goodwill donations. They swish as I cross the room toward him. Kit tenses up, and I enjoy it, being unpredictable.

“I’ll stay for Annie,” I say, as I walk past him and into my room.

Life is but a carousel of four seasons. Unpredictable for the most part. Happy. Unhappy. Content. Searching. Mess up the order, and they still rebound at one point or another. I’ve learned that revolution can be inward or outward. A move across the country to gain perspective. A change of heart and mind to gain sanity. But the point is to revolt when the season changes. If only to quench your thirst, revolt.

Della sits limp in her wheelchair, her hands curled into balls in her lap. She is most angry with her hands, she tells me, because they keep her from holding Annie. I’ve yet to hear her complain about the fact she’s stuck in a wheelchair all day, her thin legs even thinner. And she’s never mentioned the bruises that run from her stomach to below her knees in angry slaps of blue and purple. Her hands, though…

Twice, I’ve caught her sitting on them, trying to use her body weight to straighten out her fingers. She cried so hard when it didn’t work she started to choke. I thought I was going to have to call Kit home from work to calm her down. I hear her ask her home nurse about it later, looking embarrassed but altogether determined.

“A body isn’t like a piece of paper; you can’t put something heavy on it and expect it to straighten out. Give it time to heal,” the nurse tells her. I flinch at the callousness, and try to pretend that I’m not listening. At night, after Kit leaves for work, and I am in charge, I rub her hands with sesame oil. Her skin is dry and brittle like old wood. She closes her eyes and moans as I straighten out her fingers, massaging the joints and tugging on them gently, trying to will them back to normal. It’s not only her body that is different; her spirit is as well. Upbeat Della, a cheerleader, an optimist, a singing in the rain type of girl is gone. Now she is a barren girl. A bent girl. Sullen, silent, her eyes gone from a high gloss to a dull matte. Kit and I whisper about it at night and try to think of ways to bring her back. I arrange for her stylist to come to the house to wash and trim her hair. At first she seems excited, but then after a few hours she changes her mind. It takes Kit to convince her that it would be good for her. On the day that Joe is scheduled to come, Della is even quieter than usual. When I ask if she wants to hold Annie she shakes her head no. Joe rings the bell early and brings Della her usual coffee and a bouquet of bright pink peonies. I hug him and make a face when he asks how she is. “I’ll take care of her Boo Boo,” he says. Joe Bae is straight; we want him to be gay, but he’s very straight. He’s always had a thing for Della, which is why he’s willing to make house calls. Today I am very thankful that he’s straight. “Flirt extra,” I whisper. “See if you can get her to smile.” He winks at me and wanders off to find her. Everything is going well until twenty minutes later when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She begins to cry and asks Joe to cover the mirror with a towel. She begs Joe to cut her hair short, and when I argue, she asks me to leave. Joe makes a frightened face as I’m closing the door. He doesn’t know what to do. When they emerge an hour later, Della has a pixie cut. I am genuinely afraid for my life. Kit is going to kill me. Joe makes a shut the hell up face at me, and I try to smile and be positive. “It’s so different and fun! Would you like some cottage cheese and pineapple?”

“I don’t care what you think,” Della snaps, when she sees the look on my face. “You didn’t smell it after…”

She’s right. I didn’t. Her mother washed her when she woke up from the coma. She told Kit and I that it took three shampoos to get the smell out of her hair. When Kit gets home from work, he doesn’t miss a beat, smiling and touching the chopped pieces on her head like they’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Della beams, looking relieved. I hide in the kitchen, washing the same bottles over and over until he comes to find me. I wait for him to be mad, but he’s talking about dinner.