Note the date!

Thank you in advance for your reviews!


The Fowler Cooper Publication Federation

November 2033

Primary Topic: What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson

Additional Book(s) Mentioned: Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson, The Curious Incident of the Dog in Night-Time by Mark Haddon, Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris


Unable to remember when she'd last looked this bad, Sheldon frowned. Her skin looked sallow, and she had started to even break out with acne like a teenager. Dark circles had moved in under her newly dull eyes. One day after work he found her, lost in her own thoughts, and he realized by looking at her limp and slightly greasy hair that she'd even neglected to shower that morning.

He imagined her looking bad the day of Stuart's Halloween party, but he hadn't actually seen her until she showed up looking like a very determined Melody Malone. After MeeMaw died? Ashamed, he knew he hadn't been looking at all. After the earthquake? No, she'd had the placid calm shock that a concussion brought. After Ada was born, those two weeks that almost broke them? Maybe. And yet, not; she felt purposeful then, he thought, even if she was overwhelmed by her purpose. That busy year she flew around the country, around the world, speaking, touring, convincing? No, despite the distance and how much they missed each other, it had been a very good year for her. That year Ada was eleven and she and Amy fought almost daily, the year Ada discovered curse words and stomped around and yelled that she hated her mother? Grim and hurt, yes, but she kept repeating it was just a phase. And so it was.

But now there was nothing useful to do, no discovery to name after herself and bring a sense of accomplishment, no concussion to dull the emotional pain. Amy was waiting. They were all waiting. Thanksgiving in Texas had been cancelled. The word Christmas had yet to be mentioned between them even though December first was tomorrow. Even Sheldon had canceled some speaking engagements for the new idea he'd written up and published that was starting to garner some positive attention. Amy protested, but he was firm. He would wait with her.

Because there is no worse wait than waiting for someone to die.


Amy suspected she had known for far longer than she said she knew. Or at least she had a suspicion that something was wrong. But for all the things Cynthia Fowler was, a complainer was not one of them. All she would say when she was asked about the pain in her rib was "awhile now, dear." The first sign that something was wrong was when she called and asked Amy to go to the doctor with her. She said she was afraid she'd forget something the doctor would say.

"She's never forgotten a thing in her life. She has a memory like an elephant," Amy had mumbled to Sheldon, her brow furrowed. Sheldon grunted in agreement, although he wasn't quite sure what elephants had to do with it.

Arriving home from picking up Ada from the first week of her senior year, listening to her excitement over the first meeting of the Japanese Club in which she presided as president, Sheldon instantly knew when he saw Amy sitting at the dining table: no book, no drink, no nothing. Just sitting.

"Ada, go down to see Raj and Stuart," he ordered, interrupting Ada's story.

"But, Dad, I have to -"

"I said go," he thundered. Ada's eyes widened. "Please, Ada, take your homework and go."

Perhaps it was the rarity of his roar, but Ada nodded and left, her backpack still slung over her shoulders. But, more likely, it was the lack of admonishment from Amy for his outburst.

"Amy?" he said softly, going over to her. She didn't reply. He pulled out the chair next to her and turned toward her. "Amy? Tell me."

"She's refusing treatment," Amy said, looking out the window and not at him. "She says she has lived a long and fulfilled life. She says . . . she says she refuses to be a burden to me."

Sheldon reached for her hand. "What is it?"

"Breast cancer. Stage Four, metastatic. Three to six months." This wasn't his Amy, this was some sort of robot.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I just got home about fifteen minutes ago. I needed time to process. Before I told Ada. Obviously I needed more time than I thought."

"Oh, Amy." He reached for her cheek and turned her toward him. "You don't think you can convince her?"

"No. She says she will stay at home as long as she can. She'd already researched hospice houses for the end. She knew, Sheldon. She knew even before we went to the specialist today. I - I - don't know what to do." Finally, Amy choked and Sheldon gathered her into his arms. "How will we tell Ada?"

"Shhh, shhhh," Sheldon soothed in her hair. "Ada is a very strong young woman. As are you. We'll make it through." He let her sob, her shoulders racking in his arms, and, once her tears had dried some, he said. "We'll bring her here. We won't let her die in a place where she is not . . . loved."

"But, Sheldon," Amy pulled away to look at him, tears staining her face, "it's what she wants. And we don't have the room."

"It's only what she thinks she wants because she is so independent, because she doesn't want to upset you." Sheldon licked his lips. "She can have Ada's room. Ada can stay with Raj and Stuart. She'll be moving out for college next year anyway." His heart shivered as he said it. "Only at the end, like she wants."

"But you don't like her," Amy said weakly.

"That's not true. It was true. I've grown to love her, in a way, even if she's still not my favorite person." He shrugged, looking down. "She is a wonderful grandmother." He looked back up. "Besides, it doesn't matter what I think. It's what we'll do. It's the right thing to do."

"Thank you." Amy squeezed his side. "But you don't have to. The hospice houses are very nice now, there is a trained staff -"

"No," he said firmly. "The nurses can come here, if need be." Then he took a deep breath as a tear slipped out. "I never got to say good-bye to my mother."

He had not expected to be so emotional, but the memories of that summer affected him every time he thought about them. Not that he allowed himself to think about them very often. The summer his mother died. The summer of the drought in Texas. The summer of the tornado. The summer Ada broke her arm.


It was not his memory playing a trick on him. He genuinely was not worried at the time. Thinking of her and slightly concerned, of course, but not worried. It was a routine out-patient angioplasty to clear a small blockage found during an annual physical. The percentage of blockage was just over the threshold for treatment, the risks were low.

Get-well-soon flowers had been pre-ordered. Sheldon had gone to work like normal, as had Amy. Ada was at summer enrichment camp, and she was already talking about school, so excited to start again. Not that he ever doubted her, but she had blossomed her first year. When it was determined before school started that she needed glasses, Amy worried that she would be called "four eyes" just as she had. When she seemed to lose all her baby teeth at an alarming rate of speed, leaving her with the same gappy smile Sheldon had had at that age, he had worried about the teasing she would endure for it. But neither of those things came to pass. Perhaps it was her height, but she really didn't look any younger than her classmates. She had adjusted quickly to diving into second grade with older children, and she had easily found her footing. That summer, at age six, having successfully completed her first year at school, she was an absolute delight. Although maybe still not considered a social butterfly, she had managed to make a few friends. Jacob was in her class and that was relief to both Sheldon and Amy. She had excelled academically and socially, and Sheldon envied her for finding both in her young life.

He was smiling, thinking of her, when his phone rang. Rang, not chimed.

"Computer?" he queried, turning away from the whiteboard in his office.

"Call from Missy," Siri replied.

"Accept," Sheldon instructed, walking toward his desk.

Five minutes later, Leonard had found him standing there, still holding his phone.

"Hey, buddy, I came to see how your mom is," Leonard said in a rush as he knocked on the open door and then stopped inside the door. "Whoa. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"My mother is dead," Sheldon whispered.

"What?" Leonard ran to his side.

"What is so difficult about that concept that you cannot grasp it? My mother is dead."

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. Here, sit down. I'll call Amy . . ."

A summer drought in middle-America is unlike a drought anywhere else. It is both arid and damp at the same time. The ground turns dry and dusty and cracks form, yet the humidity is so thick it makes it hard to breath. The water vapor hangs in the air all around you, making you sweat, making your hair wet, and yet it refuses to fall. Wooden surfaces become sticky with trapped moisture. The heat index was well over a hundred every day by mid-morning that early August.

Even worse than the heat was the house. It felt strange and morbid to be sleeping in his old bedroom, in his old home, without his mother there. It was the house of a dead woman, and he suddenly saw it that way. Everything was dated and in disrepair. The appliances were so old they were rusting and only two burners on the stove worked. The basement stairs were in poor repair and one of the railings had completely broken off, leaving one side of the staircase dangerously exposed to the hard concrete of the basement floor beneath it. He frowned, angry at himself that he'd never noticed all these deathtraps on their visits, that he'd never bought his mother a new refrigerator or hired a contractor to figure out how to move the washing machine and dryer upstairs. It was always spotlessly clean; maybe his mother's hard work and warmth had blinded him to the faults of the house.

The neighborhood had also gone downhill overnight it seemed, although he realized it must have been a gradual change. Broken fences, chained dogs, cars on blocks in driveways. He understood why his sister and her husband had moved across town to a new subdivision with a bland but clean and safe ranch house.

On his second day, he left with Missy to go see the lawyer about the will. He hated going, he hated another reminder that his mother was dead. He hated leaving Amy and Ada in this neighborhood. His nephews would be there, too, as Amy had agreed to watch them, but even they weren't old enough provide any protection. Sheldon was angry that George hadn't come, even in response to multiple phone calls from Missy. His sister had informed him that their brother was off the wagon again, had been for a few months, but that she suspected he was missing because he was on a bender after their mother's death. Unfortunately, his brother was sinking ever further into alcoholism, and his absences had become the norm instead of the exception. But for some reason, that summer, something about his unknown whereabouts made Sheldon anxious. George's selfishness was yet another thing to be angry about, even when Amy tried to remind him that alcoholism was a disease.

He'd been short with her, he knew, and her placid acceptance of this and her silent forgiveness made him even more enraged at himself. Why did he have to go to the lawyer's, anyway? It was now painfully apparent to him that his mother had nothing of worth to leave behind. Amy offered to come with him, but Missy's husband was at work and then who would watch the kids?

The meeting was just as brief as Sheldon had suspected, because, as he conjectured, all his mother had was the house. The lawyer could have told him that over the phone. But that's where his expectations were turned on their head. She had left it all to him. Not to George, because he was the oldest. Not even to Missy, who would have been the most logical person to deal with it all. What on Earth had his mother been thinking, why did she think he would want that house now? What would he do with it, how would he manage all the legal implications from all the way out in California?

Things went from bad to worse on the way home. The air conditioning was broken in Missy's minivan and the humidity had seemed to rise even more while they were in the lawyer's office. A strong wind had picked up, but it only blew the hot air around them. Not to mention what a strong summer wind portended. As unwelcome as the news of his inheritance was to Sheldon, Missy was furious about it. She accused him of being lucky and being too smug to even realize it; telling her that there was no such thing as luck, that he had worked very hard to make his own life, only angered her further. There was no use trying to explain to her that he never wanted the house, that Sheldon had no use for it; she argued that he was rubbing her face in how successful and well off he was, that such a small amount of money was beneath him. That was not what he'd meant at all, but the heat and the confusion and the overwhelming loss of his mother drained the will to fight out of him.

He leaned his elbow on the open van window and rubbed the sweat off his face. All he wanted was to be back in the air conditioning with Amy, to talk it through with her. Only Amy would be able to help him make sense of it all. The silence and the heat were making him nauseous and he reached over to turn on the radio, wincing when a warbling country song came out of the speakers. He quickly turned it off, but then Missy reached over and turned it back on. Probably just to annoy him. He sighed loudly and went back to trying not to vomit out the car window.

"Rain!" he suddenly yelled, sitting up straight and pulling his elbow off the edge of the window.

"What?" Missy asked.

"I just felt a raindrop on my arm. Look! There's the line!" He leaned forward and pointed out dark cloud line in the windshield. "It's following us."

"And moving fast," Missy said, as the windshield was suddenly pelted with dozens of raindrops.

For a brief second, everything seemed better. It was pouring rain now, and Missy actually laughed as she rolled up the windows and turned on the windshield wipers. Then, just as quickly as it had changed the first time, their relief as interrupted by the three loud, long, and high-pitched tones from the radio.

"A tornado!" Sheldon shrieked.

"Jesus, Shelly, don't scare me like that," Missy admonished. "I about drove off the road." Sheldon glanced over at her, hunched over the wheel, her driving having slowed because of the poor visibility in the downpour. "Calm down. It could be anywhere in the county. And it's still raining."

His heart thumping, Sheldon reached up to wrap his hand around the seat belt and took several Kolinar breaths. Missy was correct: the pouring rain was a good sign. His experience told him that a tornado rarely came in a downpour. It was the eerie calm in the middle of a storm one should be concerned about.

Still . . . "Hurry up! We need to get home, to the basement!"

"I can't go any faster!"

"Amy and Ada are there alone!"

"What, and my sons are chopped liver?" Missy growled, but he noticed an uptick in her speed as the rain slowed some.

Sheldon reached forward, his palms pressing on the dashboard, wishing he could push the car faster, closer to his mother's house. Missy turned off the main street into the neighborhood and, now that the sounds of traffic had lessened, he could hear the baying of all those outside dogs. They were barking, every last one of them, as they passed.

"What's wrong with all these mutts?" Missy asked. Her sentence was punctuated with the screech of the wipers against the windshield. Suddenly, there wasn't enough rain to lubricate their path across the glass.

"Missy, the sky!"

He didn't need to yell it, as Missy slammed her foot on the gas and the minivan speed forward, running a four way stop, taking the turn onto his mother's street at high speed. Once you have seen a tornado sky, you never forget it, that greenish cast, the absence of clouds, the feeling in the air that makes the hair of your neck stand on end. He was out of the van before it had even fully skidded to a halt in front of the house, his long legs propelling him toward the front door, a prayer under his breath for his wife and daughter. The screen door snapped and pulled out of his hands as the wind caught it, but he never noticed.

"Amy! Ada!"

Running fast, running scared, opening the basement door, his sister calling "Levi! Ezra!" behind him. At the last minute he remembered and yelled to her, "Watch the stairs! The railing is gone!" Down the steps he rushed, collapsing into the huddle of warmth, all the breath he'd been holding escaping into the soft arms of his wife and daughter.

"It's alright, Sheldon," Amy soothed. "We've been down here the whole time."

"Dad! Is it a tornado?" Ada tugged at his sleeve. "Hold me up, so I can see it out the window!"

"Absolutely not!" Sheldon said, glancing toward the tiny basement escape window, high on the concrete block wall. The sight of the sky made him nauseous all over again. "We should sit over there with Aunt Missy -" his sister and his nephews had already unfolded the woven lawn chairs and Missy was reaching for the flashlights, although the the power was still on "- as that's the furthest corner from the window."

Amy squeezed his hand and he squeezed it back. It would all be fine now. He'd weathered many a tornado down in the basement before, sitting on the lawn chairs, failing to interest his siblings in playing Battleship with him. In retrospect, the merciless teasing he had endured from their boredom was worse than any storm.

It wasn't clear who heard it first; they all seemed to hear it at the same time. The sound of a door slamming and heavy footfalls on the floor above them. They all stopped and looked up. There was silence in the basement now, no footsteps, only the howling of the wind and the droning of the tornado siren outside.

"Did you lock the front door?" Sheldon whispered accusingly to his sister.

"Yes, I stopped in the middle of a life-threatening storm and a hysterical twin brother to worry about the front door!" Missy shot back.

Sheldon started to turn toward the stairs, but Amy pulled at him. "Leave it, Sheldon."

"But what if they're robbing us blind?" he asked.

"It's not worth any of our lives," she replied, and then they all jumped when they heard something hit the side of the house.

"Very well," he grumbled.

Then the footsteps started again, clearly walking toward the basement door. "What do we do now?" Sheldon whispered.

"Maybe they just want some shelter," Amy suggested.

"I should have brought my shotgun," Levi, his eldest nephew, said.

Ada gasped next to him. "You have a gun?"

Before Levi could respond, the basement door opened and they all turned. "Hello?" Missy called.

"I should have known you'd all be hiding like a bunch of pussies," the slurred words came.

"George," the adults all muttered in unison.

It should have been a relief, that the stranger upstairs was just his older brother, not a thief. A relief that George had finally shown up, a relief that maybe his brother would make an appearance at their mother's funeral tomorrow. But for some reason, it just exasperated Sheldon's anger further. He stormed up the stairs, two at time, stopping near the top.

George was on the top step. His clothes were dirty and his face was unshaven and he reeked of alcohol. Sheldon's noise turned up in disgust. How dare he show up here, now, in that condition, in front of his wife and child!

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"What does it look like?" George swayed a bit with the effort of the words and put his hand out on the wall to steady himself. "Saying hello to my runt of my brother. Hello, retard."

"I'm two inches taller than you. And you need to leave," Sheldon said, his throat tightening. How dare George -

"Shelly, let him stay until the storm passes," Missy called.

Sheldon turned to look down at her through the open gap above the stairs. Of course she would take his side. She always had. It had always been George and Missy versus Sheldon. There had never been a special twin bond between he and his sister. He was always the outsider, he was always outnumbered, and he'd always paid the price.

"You smell bad."

His own childhood evaporated as he turned, all the air leaving his body. How had he missed her approach? "Ada, what are you doing? Get down! Go back down with your mother!"

Ada stood just one step behind him, looking so young and fragile. "Don't you know it's rude to call people retarded? It's not even accurate."

"Well, looky here," George slurred. "Little Ada! Aren't you a chip off the old block?" He stretched forward, squeezing past Sheldon to tug at one of Ada's two braids.

"Don't touch her!" Sheldon yelled, pushing back against George as his brother swayed from the combined effects of bending over and his inebriation.

"Yeah, whatcha you gonna do about it, pussy?" George bellowed, shoving Sheldon's shoulder.

There was a whistling sound in Sheldon's head that he associated with anger, but, in retrospect, was coming from outside. "Get out of this house!"

"Make me!" Another shove. The lights dimmed for just a second. "But you won't! You'll send in the little wifey to do your manly work again. She's the only one with the balls to throw a punch."

Sheldon's fist curled at his side, even though he'd probably never use it, despite George's taunts, just as he never had as a child. "Do. Not. Talk about my wife like that. Get out and don't ever come back!"

"Or what?" A harder shove. The lights flickered this time and Sheldon heard a gasp from the basement below. "It's not your house, retard."

It snapped inside of him, all those years of torment, the selfishness of his brother, the loss of his mother, the anxiety about the storm, the sight of his daughter's braids being pulled, the things he said about Amy. "Oh, but it is now, and I told you to GET OUT!"

The whistling of the approaching tornado filled the basement and there was a loud cracking sound from somewhere in the house, but all everyone noticed was the swing of Sheldon's arm.

A swing, George trying to duck but too inebriated to make it out in time, the contact of Sheldon's fist against his brother's forehead, the pain radiating up Sheldon's fingers, the other hand reaching out to grab the wall to steady himself on the stairs . . .

"Stop it!" yelled Amy . . . "Watch out!" yelled Missy . . . "Fight!" yelled his nephews . . . the lights flickered again . . . three more blasts from the tornado siren . . . George lurching forward with his arms outstretched, ramming into Sheldon's shoulder . . . and the scream from Ada that still haunted his dreams, her little thin body teetering on the stairs as George's free hand reached out to grab her, to grab anything . . . and then falling off the side where the handrail should have been, down, down, down onto the concrete floor of the basement, the lights flickering like a strobe light around her body as it fell and then everything went dark at the same time as she landed with thud. A second of only silence and blackness, the absence of her scream worse than its presence.

"Ada!" He heard Amy as she rushed to Ada's side, but Sheldon only felt the bile rising in his throat as he remained rooted in one spot, watching the beams of the flashlights swing and surround the body on the floor. He didn't even notice if George fell, too, or if he caught himself in time. It was said that one's life passed before one's eyes when death approached, which Sheldon always believed to be pseudo-philosophical poppycock. But, in that exact second, it all came rushing before him, the sorrows and joys, the sight of a dark-haired baby sliding from between Amy's thighs . . .

He saw Amy slowly roll her now moaning daughter over, shushing, "Careful, Ada, gently," and there was a collective gasp as the sight of her left forearm, bent and dangling at an unnatural angle. There was blood running out of her bottom lip.

"Ada!" He was able to move finally, and he ran, ran like the wind still howling outside, down the stairs, even in the dark, scooping up his broken daughter, carrying her to the car, Amy running behind him with a flashlight, holding her all the way to the hospital in the downpour, past the funnel cloud dissipating in the distance, past the damaged houses, rocking and crying in the back seat with her, running and carrying her into the ER. It was only after they'd pried her away from him, that she was rolled away from them to be repaired, when Amy collapsed into his arms, that he realized his brother had left in the pandemonium. That he knew he never wanted to see him again.


Sheldon stood in the hallway, studying his mother's paintings, listening to Amy softly sing Soft Kitty to Ada. Finally she came out, shutting the door to his sister's old room behind her.

"She's asleep," she whispered unnecessarily. Poor Ada, obviously still in pain, her new cast glaring in the sunlight at the burial just an hour ago. Sheldon had told Amy that she shouldn't come, that he would go to his mother's funeral without them, but Amy had insisted that he shouldn't be alone for that, that it was important for Ada to have that closure. He disagreed, but he didn't have the energy to argue about it. Look what happened the last time he'd argued with someone.

When he told Amy he didn't want to go to the meal afterwards at Missy's house, she'd nodded her head and they had returned to put Ada down for a nap, although her pain medications had her asleep before they even arrived. Now, still in her black dress, Amy came and put her arms around his waist. "How are you holding up?"

Sheldon shrugged. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. "This has been one of the worst weeks of my life."

Amy pressed her head closer to him, and Sheldon gave silent thanks for her presence. He knew she understood. They didn't say anything, the whole experience yesterday was still too raw and traumatic to discuss, and Sheldon continued to study the painting in front of him. "I don't understand this one," he finally said.

"Why?" Amy asked.

"They're all famous landmarks of East Texas," Sheldon said, waving his hand. "But I don't recognize this one." He sighed. "I realize I never asked her what it was."

It was from different the others, its colors cool and soothing unlike the hot yellows and oranges of the other landscapes. It was a large white house with a wraparound porch, shaded by trees and large soft green lawn and bright red flowers in window boxes. Not a connoisseur of art, Sheldon thought perhaps a critic would say its subject matter was too simple and trite. Nonetheless, its inclusion here, amongst the harsher sights of his childhood, confused him and thus drew him to it.

"Did she ever put a label on the back with the name?" Amy asked. "Or do they only do that in art museums?"

Sheldon glanced at her a moment and then reached forward, carefully lifting the framed painting off the nail. He turned it over and saw in his mother's handwriting, faded with age: My dream home.

Swallowing away a sob, the optimism struck him especially hard. This was his mother's unfulfilled dream. Suddenly, he felt just as lucky as Missy accused him of being: of finding Amy, of having Ada, that it was only a broken arm and a split lip, that he didn't have to stay here, in this house, in this neighborhood, in this life. He said, "Will you call and change our flight? I want to leave as soon as possible. Tonight if we can."

Amy turned sharply next to him. "Leave? Now? But what about the house? You have to decide what to do with it. I told you it's your decision, Sheldon, it's your home."

He shook his head. "I'll give it to Missy. She wants it. I don't." Another swallow as he looked down at the beautiful, tranquil dream home his mother never obtained before he tucked the painting under his arm. "I'll take this. There's nothing else here for me anymore."


That winter, Missy again called unexpectedly to tell Sheldon that George's body had been found in an alley after a freak Texan snowstorm. It was believed some combination of alcohol poisoning and hypothermia had led to his demise. Over Missy's pleading, Sheldon felt no urge to go home, no need to go through the meaningless rituals for his brother. Instead, he told Missy that he would help pay for whatever funeral she saw fit. He felt completely blank inside.

Perhaps it was the freshness of the scar, and not just the bright pink line radiating just a few millimeters from Ada's lower lip. She had recovered completely within a couple of days that summer, showing off her cast proudly at Leonard and Penny's after they returned, enthralling Jacob and the others with the story. Amy had tried to get her to stop telling it, but the words "gun" and "tornado" and "drunk" were so foreign to their sheltered children that it was impossible to get her to stop sharing her tale. Even Sheldon, in all his residual anger at George, was forced to admit she told it well, with just the right pacing and drama and suspense.

Preparing for an argument, Sheldon informed Amy in one quick sentence about George's untimely death and his decision that they would not be going to Texas. Then he took a deep breath, crossed his arms, and said, "I know that you disagree. I know that you will point out, with a biologist's logic, that alcoholism is a disease for which he inherited the propensity for from my father. I know that you think I'm being unfair and rash. I know that you think I'll regret this in the long run. Perhaps you even think I owe it to Missy to return home, to assist her with this. And I'm sure you've thought all along I've held too great a grudge about Ada's arm, because it could have been so much worse and a broken bone is not unusual in childhood. I know you've wanted to tell me it was just an accident and I should forgive him ever since that day. But -"

"Shhh, Sheldon," Amy had reached up to touch his crossed arm, her eyes soft, "please stop. All I want you to know is that I support your decision." Then she looked away slightly. "That afternoon, seeing Ada like that . . . it didn't feel like an accident to me, either."

Now, the years having passed, Sheldon took his family home every November for Thanksgiving and they saw Missy's family at occasional important functions. They had never been close, but they are mature enough be civil and cordial and set good examples for their own children. Sheldon was able to see she was a good mother, even if she believed the same religious myths their mother had, and he admitted that he was pleased when she took his suggestion and used the money from the sale of their childhood home to set up a college fund for her sons.

Now, the scar on Ada's chin having shrunk with her growth and faded to the palest of pink, Sheldon still didn't feel any regret that he didn't go home for George's funeral. He did, however, occasionally regret that they'd never had a conversation to make peace, that he'd never spoke to his brother even in those months when he went to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and held down a job. He did not verbalize this even to Amy, but he wanted his wife to have all the conversations she needed with her mother, while there was still time.


Ada's room was dim with the blinds drawn and Amy was holding her iKindle, but Sheldon knew she wasn't really reading. The end was coming soon, now, he thought. Cynthia, lying in the hospital bed where Ada's bed used to be, was nothing but skin and bones, and she slept all but a couple of hours a day. When she was awake, you never knew if she'd be lucid or not. The lucidity was coming less often now. In so many ways, she was already gone.

"Amy?" Sheldon said softly.

"Hmmmm?" she turned.

He walked over and put his hand on her shoulder to still her movements. She was sitting in the old rocking chair they had bought before Ada arrived, and it had always stayed in her room. Rocking for both new life and dying life. "Why don't you take a break?"

"I'm fine. Someone needs to be with her until the night nurse comes."

"Ada will sit here for a while." He squeezed her shoulder. "Come on, Amy." When there was no response, he used the most potent allure he knew. "It's Book Club Night. You love Book Club Nights."

Amy turned toward him then and gave a weak smile. "Ada will sit with her?"

"She's right outside." Sheldon pointed toward the door and Ada entered on cue. "It's okay, Mom. I'll stay."

They had been so worried about Ada's reaction to this sorrowful upheaval in her life, and yet she had squared her shoulders and faced this challenge like she faced any other: with dignity and strength. Just like her grandmother. Not that she wasn't heartbroken; they had heard her sobbing in her room more than once, but Ada liked to be alone when she was sad, and they allowed her that peace.

Sheldon took Amy's hand and led her away from the dim room. It was early for Book Club, but he wanted there to be some sun left in the great room, something cheery and warm for his wife.

"Why don't you sit in your reading chair? In the sunroom? I'll make us some tea." Amy didn't argue, which was only a sign of her fatigue, he thought. But she relaxed into her Eames chair, stretching her legs out onto the footrest, and closed her eyes to the deep sunset rays while Sheldon made the tea.

"Is it too bright? Should I lower the glare shades?" he asked, handing her a mug.

"No." Amy opened her eyes and smiled as Belle hopped up onto her lap. Not the sad, soft smile she was giving lately, an actual Amy smile. "It feels good, warm." She reached for her tea with one hand while petting the cat with the other. "Thank you, Sheldon, this is just what I needed."

"You've been working too hard," Sheldon said, pulling out his desk chair and rolling it closer to her before sitting down.

"I feel like I've not been working at all. I took leave to be with her and the nurses do all the work. I just sit and read to her sometimes." Then she frowned. "Not that she seems to notice, anymore."

"I'm sure she knows on some level," Sheldon said. "Even a person in a coma - never mind." He took a drink of tea.

"It's okay, Sheldon, I'm still a scientist. I'm not breakable. I can talk about this logically, too. I have to discuss it with the hospice nurses frequently."

"I know." He sighed. "I may have mislead you a little."

"What? How?" Amy sat up a little straighter in her chair, causing Belle to rearrange.

"I did want to give you a break, to let you relax in your favorite chair in the sun and talk to you. But I'm not actually eager for Book Club," he admitted.

"Ah." Amy sat back. "I'm sorry, it was an awful pick. I don't know what I was thinking."

"I presumed you picked it because death was on your mind," Sheldon said softly.

"Hmm, maybe subconsciously. But would you be surprised to learn my conscious reason?" Sheldon nodded. "Remember when we read Somewhere in Time?"

"Of course."

"It was such a happy time. I remember sitting on the beach, in the sun, on those chairs, the way you talked about it . . . I guess I wanted to recapture that, somehow. And this book is often referenced as the companion to Somewhere in Time."

Sheldon smiled. What a wonderful long weekend that had been. They had never had a traditional honeymoon, and, in some ways, he felt that was theirs. Even better than a traditional honeymoon, because he felt that they'd earned it, not just by having some party, but by making it through a difficult time and coming out stronger in the end. "That was after MeeMaw died, so perhaps it was not as different as you think."

"Maybe not." Amy took a drink of tea. "We don't have to discuss it much. I just don't want to you feel like we've left something undone." Sheldon's heart pattered a bit for her. "I presume you hated it."

"Permission to speak freely?"

Amy chuckled, and he realized how much he'd missed it. "Always."

"This is the worst book I've ever read. Period."

"Really?" Amy said. "Worse than The Curious Incident of the Dog in Nighttime? Worse than Five Quarters of the Orange?"

"Yes. I didn't like those books either, but at least they were based on facts. This was the most ridiculous, flighty, purely illogical hypothetical claptrap I've ever read." It all came out in a rush, and he wondered if he's said too much. He buried his face in his mug.

"Would it make you feel better to know I agreed?" Amy asked.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Sheldon reached forward and put his palm on her thigh. "I was so worried that you were getting religious now."

A laugh. A genuine laugh and even her eyes lit up for him. "No. First of all, Mother would disapprove. She had no room in her life for faith."

"I wonder why not," Sheldon said, sitting back in his chair.

Amy shrugged. "She had faith once, I think, in something misguided. And it failed her. Because there was no way it couldn't. But in the midst of that blinding need, she couldn't see the truth. She never believed in a single thing after that." Amy took a breath. "Not even chemotherapy."

Taking few sips of tea in a row, Sheldon thought about issuing a moratorium on such depressing statements, but he decided against it. He would let Amy talk about what she wanted to, to say what she needed to say. She was correct, she was a scientist and she was perfectly capable of having a conversation about her mother and death and faith and even religion if she desired. And, as his goal was really just to sit down and talk to her, he wouldn't say or do anything to impede that. He decided, instead, to return to the book at hand. "Did you like how this book was written? I remember being, um, moved, I guess -" Amy's lips turned up "- by the writing in the other book, there were passages that I found very . . . touching. And, yet, here, I did not feel that as much. Which is strange, because the protagonist is much more vocal about his love here."

"Maybe that's what you didn't like. That you were repeatedly told by him much he loved his wife. I, too, like it better when love is described and not just stated. Sometimes it's just the little things, like a certain look or touch or moment of understanding between the characters."

"Yes, I think that's it." Sheldon smiled. "Did I ever tell you how good you are this Book Club thing?"

"Never enough," Amy smiled back. "Here, hand me my book. I'm trapped under a cat." Sheldon turned and reached for her iKindle, that she'd sat on the edge of the desk when she walked in. "It's hokey, but there is a passage I liked." She put her head down and started to read. "'"You feel so strongly about each other because you're soul mates." I didn't know how to take that, how to react. I'd heard the phrase, of course, but in the most banal of ways, within the context of trivial ballads and poetry. "What it means, literally," Albert said, "is that you both possess the same wavelength, your auras are in vibratory unison." Reaction failed me still. What good was knowing this if it didn't help Ann? "That's why you fell in love with her so quickly when you met her on the beach that day," Albert had continued. "Your soul was celebrating a reunion with her."'"

"Do you believe that?" Sheldon asked. "Do you really believe that there are true soul mates?"

"In the sense of this book, in which the same two souls repeatedly find each other again and again in different lives throughout history? No, because I don't believe in reincarnation or rebirth, as it's called here," Amy shook her head. "However, there are times I feel we're on the same wavelength."

"Just times?" Sheldon raised an eyebrow.

Amy leaned forward to grasp his hand, and Belle leapt down. She didn't even have to reply, Sheldon knew.

"On the whole, I found this book too meandering with a lot of unnecessary details. Not to mention the obvious belief in an afterlife," Sheldon said. "Because he's a science fiction writer, I was also disappointed in Matheson's version of heaven. If you're going to write such a wildly fictional book, why wouldn't you write something new and inventive? This heaven was just stereotypical heaven without the wings and harps."

"There would be harps in my heaven," Amy said simply.

"Mine, too," Sheldon replied softly. For some reason, he thought of his mother's painting, the one they hung by the front door. Sitting on that porch, in that shade, that green lawn, those red flowers, listening to Amy play the harp . . .Then he cleared his throat. "However, there were a couple of lines I marked. Would you like me to read them?"

"Of course." Amy shifted in her chair, tucking her legs up under her and handing Sheldon her empty mug. He sat it on the desk as he reached for his own book. "The times I'd heard Ann say 'If you died, I'd die too. If you went first, I don't think I could make it.'" He pressed his thumb to turn the page. "And this: '"The death of someone with whom a person has been long and closely associated leaves a literal vacuum in that person's life," Albert said. "The streams of psychic energy directed toward the lost someone now have no object."'"

He looked at Amy's face, soft and glowing in the sunset, her head tilted slightly as she absorbed what he said. "I'm surprised you picked it, because of the mention of psychic energy," she said finally.

"It reminded of a quote by Richard Feyman. He wrote a letter to his wife after she passed away, and he wrote, 'You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive.'"

Amy sighed softly. "That's beautiful. Sad, but beautiful."

Sheldon nodded. "Would you remarry if I died tomorrow?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" Amy jerked up. "You are not dying tomorrow. No, I you are not allowed to die before me. I forbid it."

"You can't forbid it. You don't have that power over death," Sheldon pointed out.

"No." Amy leaned back into the chair. "But if I have the power over my own death, I won't let you spend weeks or months or even years taking care of me. I want to go quickly. If there's a moment, a second, that a decision is to be made, Sheldon, promise me you'll let me go."

"Like a DNR?" Sheldon asked.

"Even more than that. If I am elderly and there a choice to be made, do not prolong the inevitable."

"I promise," Sheldon said, not pointing out she was asking for the exact same thing she couldn't understand her mother asking for. "Although, perhaps, for legal reasons, we ought to get that down in writing." Amy nodded. "I feel the same. I used to want my brain kept alive to live forever in a robot body, but I feel that technological advancement will not come in my lifetime. In addition, I do not want to be a lonely robot."

"Oh, Sheldon," Amy said softly.

"I guess that's why I marked those pages. I understood that, I understand Feyman. My wish is that we die together."

Amy put her legs on floor and leaned forward in the chair to take both of Sheldon's hands. "Enough," she said softly. "We are not that old yet. Yes, we should put our wishes in writing, for Ada, for each other. But enough of this discussion." She sat back. "Tell me all the gossip from Caltech. I miss it."

Squeezing her hand, Sheldon leaned back and told Amy about his work and the conversations in the cafeterias. The sun sunk even lower in the west and the shadows became deeper with approaching twilight as they discussed science and their friends and a new movie and they grinned and laughed.

Too soon, though, they heard foot steps.

"It's getting dark in here," Ada said approaching them.

"How's Mother?" Amy asked sitting up straighter.

"She's awake. And very lucid. We just had a long conversation. She'd asking for you now, though," Ada explained, and Sheldon noticed the uncharacteristic way Ada rubbed her fingernail down the side of her thumb. He tilted his head in confusion.

"Oh." Amy scrambled up, and he watched her rush toward the bedroom. He stood himself and picked up their dirty mugs to take to the dishwasher.

"Dad," Ada reached out and put her hands on the mugs, "I think you should go with her."

"Why?" he asked, barely having to look down at his tall daughter.

"Mom needs you. Just go," Ada said and then he understood.

Sheldon nodded and passed over the mugs, going to join his wife.


The corresponding After Dark chapter is Chapter 54: The Beach.