“For breakfast?”
“With onions,” he said.
October stood still for one day and then . . .
Halloween departed.
“Thanks,” said Sascha, “for helping me past that. What’s up ahead in five nights?”
“Guy Fawkes!”
“Ah, yes!” he cried.
And at one minute after midnight five days later, Maggie got up, wandered to the bathroom, and wandered back, stunned.
“Dear,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Douglas Spaulding turned over, half awake. “Yes?”
“What day is it?” whispered Sascha.
“Guy Fawkes, at last. So?”
“I don’t feel well,” said Sascha. “Or, no, I feel fine. Full of pep. Ready to go. It’s time to say good-bye. Or is it hello? What do I mean?”
“Spit it out.”
“Are there neighbors who said, no matter when, they’d take us to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Call the neighbors,” said Sascha.
They called the neighbors.
At the hospital, Douglas kissed his wife’s brow and listened.
“It’s been nice,” said Sascha.
“Only the best.”
“We won’t talk again. Good-bye,” said Sascha.
“Good-bye,” both said.
At dawn there was a small clear cry somewhere.
Not long after, Douglas entered his wife’s hospital room. She looked at him and said, “Sascha’s gone.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“But he left word and someone else is here. Look.”
He approached the bed as she pulled back a coverlet.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
He looked down at a small pink face and eyes that for a brief moment flickered bright blue and then shut.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Your daughter. Meet Alexandra.”
“Hello, Alexandra,” he said.
“And do you know what the nickname for Alexandra is?” she said.
“What?”
“Sascha,” she said.
He touched the small cheek very gently.
“Hello, Sascha,” he said.
The End
