It was one of those heartbreaking autumn days, the air crisp enough to cut you, the trees orange and red and yellow among the dark green pines. I stood on the front porch, remembered kissing Caitlin here that one Christmastime, and I thought of how much younger we all seemed then.
I was waiting for Craig to arrive. I'd offered to pick him up at the airport but he had declined. 'I'll just get a cab, it's fine,' he'd said, and I didn't feel like arguing. So I waited, smelling the smoke from someone's fire, hearing the cars buzz by, watching the leaves lazily stretch themselves from the tree branches until they touched the ground.
The sun dipped, that long afternoon dip that always reminded me of my own childhood, how I could feel the light leaving the day in my bones then. Now I'd barely notice it somedays, I'd look up and it was dark. I saw the yellow cab in the distance and it pulled up fast to my door and stopped. Craig emerged, tall and kind of rumpled from traveling, and thinner than I remembered him being. I hadn't seen him in almost a year. He was 25 now.
I helped him inside with his suitcase and guitar case. I noticed the cough immediately, always aware of signs of illness in my children. I remembered Angie's fevers when she was a baby, bright red cheeks and the weak cry and me and Julia feeding her Tylenol from the baby dropper, willing the fever to go down. Craig coughed again and held his stomach for a moment, like the cough had been going on so long it hurt his stomach muscles to surrender to it.
I pushed aside my fear, telling myself firmly that he was fine. I picked up the suitcase and hoisted it up the stairs to the front door and watched the cab driver pull quickly away.
Once inside, his stuff set by the door, I hugged him. He didn't stiffen up quite so noticeably with a hug, not like he used to when he first moved in with me. I couldn't help it, I was Italian. We hugged. I remembered the constant shrinking away from any physical contact. God that kid had made me so sad. Hugging him, I could feel his shoulder blades through his shirt, I felt the insubstantialness of him. I realized that his clothes were hiding a more extreme weight loss, and I pulled away. His eyes were fever bright, cheeks sunken. I blinked. He was sick.
I had a dinner planned and it was cooking, the smells filling the kitchen and living room. He sunk into a chair, and I looked at him carefully. He looked exhausted.
"Craig, how are you?" I said, and my eyes and ears were sharp. I took in the sunken cheekbones, the boniness of his wrists, the labored breathing and the cough.
"Okay," he said, and then he coughed and wouldn't quit, he doubled over with it and I stared at him, feeling an undefined dread start to course through my veins.
He hardly touched dinner, but he did move his food around his plate. He talked and laughed with me and Angie and I could see him trying not to cough. Angie looked at him sideways, and I could see her noticing the weight loss and the minimal eating.
After dinner Angie took off, and I sighed. She was at that age, I supposed, always with her friends. I thought she might have stayed around longer to see her brother.
"Uh, Craig," I said, running a dishtowel over a dripping plate. He was standing up to help me, and his movements were slower.
"Yeah?" he said, reaching up to put a dish away.
"Are you feeling okay?" I said, and I could tell if he was going to lie. I'd seen him lie enough to know what it looked like.
"Yeah. I feel fine," he said, and I closed my eyes. Even without the tell tale look in his eyes I knew he was lying. I felt cold, a winter chill in the smoky autumn night.