She picks herself off the bed, rubs her wilted hands over her face. She moves to the door, it closes with a soft click. She trips over a red fire truck - one of William's toys, left abandoned on her bedroom floor. She stares at it for a moment, until it becomes blurry mass of red. She steps over it and sits back down on the bed, across from the dresser. The house is quiet. She wishes that it wasn't.
"Dana." She sighs. Then, a little louder: "Dana." She closes her eyes, tears squeeze themselves between her lids and she screams: "Dana!"
Dana doesn't answer, but Maggie doesn't care. She looks up at the dresser. "I'm going to talk to you whether you answer me or not."
She pauses, collecting her thoughts. The room waits for her to speak.
"Dana, I just don't understand. I... I want to. Believe me I do..."
She looks up and takes a deep breath. She breaths, slowly, deeply; her sighs echo in the large room.
She takes a deep breath and looks up. Her tear stained face is reflected in the dresser's mirror. Calmer, finally, she resumes her verbal-thinking.
"I know you love him. I know that he loves you, that he's loved you for a very long time now, but what about William? Did you think of him at all? He's alone now Dana! Did you think of that at all?!" Her built up rage is now at an uncontrollable heights. She stands, and charges the dresser screaming: "He's alone now thanks to you! You're his mother! You're his mother!...."
She collapses on the floor, crying. "You left him... for what? For him?"
She covers her mouth to silence the sobs, the empty room absorbing them as fast as she can release them, never to be heard.
She looks up.
The abandoned red fire truck still lays on its side.
Slowly, she crawls on the floor to fetch it and gathers it into her arms, rocking it gently, comforting it as best she can.
"I know you love him, but... it's hard for me to understand, I guess. I do try. I really do." She stands; she holds the fire truck safely to her breast.
She moves towards the dresser and places it slowly besides a framed picture of Dana. She strokes Dana's cheek with one finger, while leaving a protective hand on top of the fire truck. Maybe if she stops for a moment, she can hear what her daughter is trying to tell her.
"I know that the dead can't speak," she says softly to the picture, stoking Dana's glaced face gently with one finger. "But sometimes I think that you can hear me..." Maggie looks directly into her daughter's eyes.
She picks up the picture frame, and places it face down on the dresser for another day's conversation.
With the fire truck in hand, pressed snugly into her breast, she leaves the bedroom.
The door closes with a soft click.