Chapter 21: The Next Morning
Malia tossed fitfully in her bed, often fading in and out of half-dreams and dark awakeness. She dreamt of J.C.—his naked body hunched over the computer next to her in bed late at night, working, while the screen’s glare lit the room whitely.
“Turn it off, J.C.,” she said, waving her arms, her body scrunched into a ball, and squirming under the sheets, but J.C. would not listen.
“I’m doing this for you,” he said. “For you.” But he kept her awake even in her sleep.
“I have to get up early tomorrow. I have class,” Malia said.
“You should quit,” J.C. said. “Just quit already.”
She dreamt of Meemaw stroking the red rose on the white handkerchief, but the etching came loose, and Meemaw grew frantic. She pulled at the loose strand, which grew longer and longer until the rose vanished—first the stem, then the thorns, then the bulb.
“What did you do to my rose, dearie?” Meemaw said, ripping the cloth in frustration, crying.