I can't tell him anything, of course. He has to just wait; even if he's so ready to leave his body he can't stand it. This is the cruelest part, where you are stretched, helpless, between this world and the next for an indefinite period of time. Where your relatives begin to worry whether you're sleeping or dead. Where you wonder when it will finally end. Where your children begin to panic about how they'll manage on without you.

And that's what Sandy's worrying about right now. With David out of the picture and these two young girls needing constant attention and guidance, who will be the man in their lives? Who will be able to guide them -- and more importantly, HER -- like Papa?

As if I were answering her from above (I wasn't, but she’ll look at it that way), in walks Bobby with a frazzled Beth in tow. Her coat is ripped and her dirty blonde hair is standing up oddly in some places. A faint cologne scent follows her inside.

"My wife is completely pissed at me, Sandy. She's not coming," Bobby tells her, giving Beth an irritated sideways glance. Beth looks at the ground, not in the mood to talk. For once.

"I figured THAT out about two hours ago, but thanks for the update," she replies sarcastically. "Now quiet down. I just put the girls in bed." She looks squarely at Beth.

"I don't think she has much to say right now," Bobby offers. "Let's get something to eat, huh?"

"Where's Dad?" Beth asks meekly.

"Upstairs, sleeping. Don't bother him with whatever tonight’s issue is, Beth. He’s struggling to breathe and needs to relax."

Beth rolls her eyes. "You just don’t understand. You've already got the kids and stuff."

Sandy, exhausted, doesn't even want to discuss Beth's comparison of their lives. They’re both a mess, she reasons.

It's at times like these where I ache to make myself seen or heard. But it's not possible. I can only watch, and that's the hardest part. I may have done things differently if I'd known I would have to be the one to take away Anthony from our kids. But that's the thing about life. You don't -- can't -- know. There would be no surprises, good or bad. And if there are no surprises, if you already know the outcome, then what is the point?

"Do you even want me to bother you with what happened, or can we just forget it?" Bobby asks.

"Forget it. Really," Sandy replies, scooping some pasta onto a plate. She began to eat like she hadn't in months, mouthful after mouthful. It tastes just like I had made it. Sandy had finally recreated my sauce, perfectly. She smiled to herself and then licked a red glob of tomato from the corner of her mouth.

My children surround a large oak table covered in food. Bobby is already unbuttoning his pants, just like he used to do when I'd make gnocchi. "Brava, Mama," he'd say, and then burp loudly. Tonight, though, there's a pronounced silence, as if they know. But how can they know? Maybe I’m just picking up a sense of dread, of the inevitable.


I head upstairs and overhear Beth remark on how depressing the evening has become. As I get closer and closer to Anthony’s labored breathing, I couldn’t agree more..

Miz J, is a frequent contributor to Crabby Golightly. Signs From Above commemorates the loss of her grandmother, who recently died after a long struggle with cancer. Many people asked her to send signs after her death, to which she scoffed, "That's not how it works." Or does it?

Check out Miz J's blog at Miz J