The Burden of Care, Part 2

Andy and Myra walked the main hallway in silence, the shopping bag swinging between them. Andy found himself oddly protective, an instinct he’d buried for years. He tried to focus on the anger, the old grudge, but it didn’t stick.

Myra broke the silence first. “What happens now?”

Andy stopped by the glass doors at the end of the hall, letting her catch up. “Lunch, I guess. Or we can go back to your room.”

She shook her head, brown hair flicking around her ears. “I don’t even know where that is. Or if I have a roommate.”

He tried to remember what Arabella had said. “You’re in Room 143. With Erin.”

Myra’s brow furrowed. “That’s the plant girl?”

“Yeah. You’ll like Erin, I think.”

She rolled her eyes. “Assuming she doesn’t hate me on sight.”

Andy almost said, “No one here hates you,” but the words felt fraudulent. Instead, he said, “People have worse things to worry about.”

She nodded, then stopped, fingers splayed on the glass. “Can I ask a favor?”

He braced himself. “Anything.”

“Can you… just walk with me a while? I know it’s pathetic. But I don’t want to go back yet.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

She shrugged. “Anywhere. I can’t see it, but I want to know what it feels like.”

He steered her back into the main hotel, down the corridor toward the Banquet Hall. The scents changed as they walked: fresh bread, coffee, something citrusy in the air. The sound of cutlery echoed from inside.

He described the scene: “It’s a big room, all glass and wood. There’s a buffet table with fruit, pastries, some kind of smoked fish. The windows face the ocean.”

Myra’s lips parted, a flicker of the old curiosity shining through. “What color is the water?”

He checked. “Blue, but darker at the horizon. There’s some sort of reef, I guess. It’s good, though, otherwise you would not be able to say where the ocean ends and the sky begins.”

She smiled, then looked down ruefully. “I miss the color blue,” she said. “I know that sounds stupid.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

They sat at a table near the windows. Myra ran her fingers along the grain of the wood, then set her hands in her lap, gripping the hem of her dress. Andy watched her soak in the warmth of the sun through the glass, her face tipped to catch the light.

She whispered, “For a second, it almost feels normal.”

He nodded, unsure what to say.

A staffer—another Mildred—appeared with a tray. She set out plates of sliced fruit, fresh rolls, a pitcher of cold water, and two tumblers of orange juice. Myra flinched, her head turning sharply toward the source of a sudden emotional pressure. "Why is she so angry?" she whispered, though the Mildred's face remained pleasantly smiling. Recovering, Myra's fingers quested until they found the cup.

Andy watched as she tried to pour her own water. It took three tries, the cup tipping and nearly spilling before she got it right. She smiled, a self-deprecating twist of the lips.

“Nothing’s easy anymore,” she said.

He shrugged. “You’re doing fine.”

They ate in silence for a while. Myra picked at the fruit, taking small bites, as if uncertain of the taste. After a while, she said, “Is it true about the transformations? That we can’t opt out?”

He considered. “It’s true. I don’t know what they’ll do to you next, but…”

She shook her head. “Nothing could be worse than this,” she said, indicating her eyes.

He wondered if that was true, but didn’t challenge it.

After the silence of the hotel, the world outside was a riot: birds in the fig trees, gardeners with leaf blowers, the drone of cicadas. Andy led Myra through a side door into the Inner Gardens, where the air was heavy with jasmine and the paths twisted in a geometry he was sure Arabella had designed to keep everyone just a little lost.

Myra stopped at the edge of the flagstones, lifting her face to the warmth. “Describe it for me?”

He obliged. “There’s a big path with river stones set in the grass, a koi pond to the right. Some kind of art installation made of old wood—looks like a driftwood sphere. There’s a little stone bench under the fig tree.”

She took a tentative step, sneakers scrunching the grass. “How do the koi look?”

He blinked, then peered over the edge of the pond. “Orange and white. Some black spots. One has a messed-up eye, like it survived a fight.”

She smiled. “Resilient.”

They made a slow lap around the garden. Myra kept her hand on the crook of his arm, sometimes letting go to run her fingers across a low wall or the textured bark of a palm. The tail trailed behind her, stirring leaves wherever it passed.

At the far end, the Library rose out of the hillside, a bunker of gray stone and leaded glass. Andy opened the heavy door for her, and the interior swallowed them: cold, musty, the air thick with the smell of old paper and lemon oil.

He described it for her. “Shelves everywhere, crammed with books. A table with green glass lamps, two armchairs near the fire. There’s a ladder on a rail, but the ceiling’s low. Feels like a hideout.”

Myra drifted between the stacks, hand trailing along the spines. She stopped, pulled a random book, and sniffed it. “Smells like home,” she said, hugging it to her chest. “I wish I could read the labels.”

He watched her, something twisting in his chest. “You could ask someone to read to you.”

She grimaced. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

He nearly said, “You used to love being the center of attention,” but didn’t.

They wandered past the pool—“It’s big, rectangular, can shift from freshwater to salt water, and there are chaise lounges under white umbrellas around it,” he narrated—and the spa, which he described from the outside given the amount of steam he could see through the door, and which exuded a cloying cloud of eucalyptus.

Each time they passed a landmark, Myra peppered him with questions. “Is there a beach? How big are the waves? What’s the tile like on the paths? Who else lives here? Are there rules about the rooms?” Some were practical, most weren’t. She asked about the food, the laundry, the schedule, the pets (none), and the traditions.

She asked about “date night” with an odd carefulness, as if she already dreaded the answer.

He explained as best he could, keeping to the facts. “There’s a schedule. You’ll have a turn. We can’t change those. You’ll have to spend the evening and night in my Suite. No one will **** you to do anything.” He saw her relief, and also her skepticism.

Halfway through the tour, Andy’s patience began to slip. Myra had a way of needling him without even trying: the way she asked for validation, the way she tried to keep up with his stride, the way her tail never stopped moving. He felt the old resentment curdling beneath his skin.

At the entrance to the rec room, she stopped short. “You’re angry,” she said, not turning. “I can feel it in my bones.”

He flinched. “Not at you,” he lied.

She shook her head. “No, it’s specific. Like a laser. Hot and sharp, right here.” She touched her sternum, then wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s fine. I’d be angry too.”

He didn’t have a reply. Instead, he described the rec room: “It’s got a ping-pong table, video games, a bar. Looks like a college dorm, if the college had way too much money.” He could feel the pettiness in his words, but couldn’t stop.

They moved on, down a gravel path that circled the lagoon and led to the Main Beach. The sand was pale, almost white, and the waves low, tumbling up the shoreline with a lazy rhythm. Myra stopped at the edge, letting the salt wind push her hair back.

“Are there shells?” she asked.

He looked. “Some. Mostly little spiral ones, and the occasional sand dollar.”

She crouched, sifting the sand through her fingers, tail unfurled behind her like a banner. “I always wanted to live by the ocean.”

He didn’t ask if she’d ever been.

They walked further, to the edge of the cabanas, where the sand turned to a path of flat stones. The Memory Cabana stood a little apart from the others, whitewashed and solitary. He described it.

Myra asked, “What’s that?”

He explained, as Arabella had once explained it to him: "You can go inside and watch memories. Yours, someone else's if they are with you. You can't always control it. But if you want to see the past, it's the place."

She let out a small, bitter laugh. "Watch memories? With what?"

He winced at his thoughtlessness.

"Sorry," she said, fingers tightening around her knees. "I just don't see the point. For me, anyway."

They sat on the sand at the edge of the beach, the water close enough to hear but not touch. The sun was lower now, burning yellow through the clouds.

Andy sat a few feet away, elbows on his knees. Myra hugged her legs, staring straight ahead.

After a while, she spoke: “I don’t know who I am anymore. I spent my whole life planning, working, building a reputation. Then five days ago, it’s all gone.” She laughed, but it was empty. “I used to hate people who said ‘live in the moment.’ Now it’s the only thing I have.”

He looked at her, and saw someone hollowed out and barely standing.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head, a little smile on her lips. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s not even mine, really. Bodies fail. People leave.” She exhaled. “But I wish I’d had more time.”

He wanted to reach out, to put a hand on her back, but didn’t.

They sat by the ocean for a while.

Then she said, “What if I can’t do this? The show, the challenges, whatever they want me to be?”

He shrugged. “Improvise.”

She looked over, her eyes still lost, but her mouth quirking with real humor. “You always were a terrible comforter.”

He smiled. “It’s in my nature.”

They stayed on the sand until the sun dropped behind the clouds, the air cooling, and the wind kicked up a little.

As they walked back, Myra asked, “Do you want to know the weirdest part?”

He grunted assent.

“I always thought, if I lost everything, I’d just keep going. But now, all I want is to be needed. Even if it’s just by one person.” She laughed, a sharp breath. “Is that pathetic?”

“No,” he said. “It’s pretty normal.”

She nodded, accepting that.

Back at the edge of the path, she turned to him. “Thank you,” she said, voice even. “For showing me around. I know you didn’t have to.”

He looked at her, then away. “I know what it’s like to be lost.”

They stood in silence, the world around them shifting to evening.

Then she said, “I should go find my room.”

He nodded. “If you want, I’ll walk you there.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

They moved off together, her arm hooked loosely through his, the tail swaying behind.

As they went, Andy tried to find a reason to hate her. He came up empty.

The walk to Room 143 was quiet, the only sound the scuff of sneakers on tile and the soft, whisking drag of Myra’s tail. The hallway was long and sunlit, windows on one side, potted plants on the other. Andy let Myra set the pace, watching her stretch out her hand at every doorway, counting steps as if she could reconstruct the map from nothing but muscle memory.

The room was halfway down the last hall, its door painted white with a bright brass handle. Andy keyed in the code and let them inside. “Okay,” he said. “Room one-forty-three. All the rooms have single king beds. You’re supposed to share with Erin, when she’s here.”

He paused in the entryway, letting her cross the threshold first. The air carried a hint of ocean salt and frangipani blossoms, mingling with the faint sweetness of coconut-scented toiletries. Above her head, a ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring the warm, tranquil hush of the room. Andy described the view from thew windows: crystal-clear lagoon waters stretching beneath the stilted pavilion, coral visible just beneath the ripples. He mentioned the large king bed, the pale bamboo walls, the polished hardwood floors, and the glass panel inset in the floor to show the water below the room. The drapes hanging around the bed, and the two wardrobes on the sides of the room.

Myra stepped forward, counting under her breath. Five steps to the edge of the bed. She ran her hand along the footboard, then reached for the mattress. It was soft, with just enough give that she sank in a little. Her tail swished, gauging the clearance behind her as she moved. “Which side is the bathroom?” she asked.

Andy pointed, then realized. “Uh, it’s right of the entry. Door’s flush with the wall, maybe three steps from where you are.”

She found it by echo, palm flat to the drywall, then traced the frame until she hit the latch. The tail wedged the door open as she ducked inside, and he heard the tap of her nails on the counter, the rattle of the toilet lid, the tug of a hand towel from its ring. She was marking the world, sightless but methodical.

He watched as she returned, closing the door behind her with her hip. “What about shelves? Or closet?”

“There are two wardrobes,” Andy said. “next to the window, on both sides.”

She padded to the wardrobe, opened it, felt drawers, counted them by touch, then opened the top one and closed it again. “Got it. I’ll remember.”

Andy set her shopping bag on the bed. Myra fished out the spare dress and jumpsuit, ran her fingers along the seam of the tote. He wasn’t sure if she was checking for damage or just needing something to do with her hands.

“Is the window open?” she asked, turning her face to the light.

“No. They don’t open here,” Andy said. “Safety thing, I guess.”

She nodded, the movement slow. “I thought so. The air smells… closed.”

He lingered in the doorway, not sure whether to stay or give her space. She walked the perimeter of the room, hand gliding along the plaster, tail brushing the baseboard. The animal part of her had already learned the territory; the rest was catching up.

When she finished the loop, she stopped by her bed, knuckles pressed against the coverlet. “Thank you,” she said. “For showing me.”

He almost asked, For what? but the answer was obvious in her posture. She was grateful—really, sincerely grateful—and it stung more than any argument would have. He’d braced for a fight, not for this.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, no problem.”

They stood in silence, the room too big for two people and too small for what hung between them.

After a minute, Andy said, “Tonight’s your date night. With me.” He kept his eyes on the wall. “There’s a rule: you have to share my bed, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

She smiled, wan and practiced. “That’s a low bar, Andy.”

He almost smiled back, but her words had the sting of truth. “Yeah,” he said. “But I mean it.”

Myra sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in her lap. She looked up, not at him, but past him. “Can I ask something?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you angry with me?” Her voice was careful, each word chosen like it might set off a mine.

Andy hesitated, feeling the old grievance surge and recede, like a fever dream. “I shouldn’t be, but… yeah. I am.”

She nodded, as if expecting that. “I can’t fix whatever it is I did. I wish I could. But I don’t even know what it was.” She exhaled, slow. “You don’t have to forgive me, Andy. Just… don’t hate me.”

He stared at the patch of sunlight on the floor. The fox tail curled around her knee, hugging tight.

“Look,” he said, voice brittle, “I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to let go of things. But I’ll try not to make it worse for you.”

She nodded again, chin dipped to her chest. “Thanks.”

He heard the faintest tremor in her voice, the kind of tremor that meant she was holding something in. He wondered what it was. He wondered if he wanted to know.

He turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway. “I’ll come back at eight. To walk you to the Suite.”

She tilted her face up, the unfocused eyes huge and empty. “I’ll be ready.”

He left before the silence could close in again, but he felt her gratitude—hot and embarrassing, like a spotlight—chasing him down the hall.

He hated, as he went, that he could be the kind of man who frightened blind women. He wondered if that would ever stop hurting.