Free The Twelve (Book Two of The Passage Trilogy): A Novel by Justin Cronin Page A

had to pry the mop from the woman’s hands, saying,
Por favor, Yolanda, let me help you, I’m a doctor. Soy médico
. (Of course it was bronchitis; Lila had listened to the woman’s chest right there in the kitchen and written the prescription for amoxicillin herself, knowing full well that Yolanda probably didn’t even
have
a doctor, let alone insurance.) So, okay, she sometimes threw the mail away and mixed up the silverware and put the socks in the underwear drawer, but she was a hard worker, tireless really, a cheerful and punctual presence they depended on, what with their crazy schedules. And now not even a call.
    Which was another thing. The phone didn’t seem to be working, on top of which there was no mail. Or newspaper. But David had told her not to go outside under any circumstances, so Lila hadn’t checked. Maybe the newspaper was sitting in the driveway.
    She fetched a glass from the cabinet and turned on the faucet. A groan from below, a burp of air, and … nothing. The water, too! Then she remembered; the water had been out a while. Now she’d have to call a plumber on top of everything else. Or would have, if the phones were working. Wasn’t it just like David to be away when everything went to hell in a handbasket. That had been one of Lila’s father’s favorite expressions, hell in a handbasket. A curious turn of phrase, now that Lila thought about it. What exactly was a handbasket, and how was it different from a regular basket? There were lots of phrases like that, even just simple words that could suddenly look strange, as if you’d never seen them before. Diaper. Misled. Plumber. Married.
    Had that really been her idea, to marry David? Because she didn’t remember thinking,
I will marry David
. Which a person
should
think, probably, before they went ahead and did it. Strange how one minute life was a certain way and then it was another, and you couldn’t remember what you’d done to make it all happen. She wouldn’t have said that she loved David, exactly. She
liked
him. She
admired
him. (And who could fail to admire David Centre? Chief of cardiology at Denver General, founder of the Colorado Institute of Electrophysiology, a man who ran marathons, sat on boards, held season tickets to both the Nuggets and the opera, who daily hauled his patients from the very brink of death?)But did these feelings add up to love? And if not, should you actually marry such a man because you were carrying his child—nothing planned, it had simply happened—and because, in a moment of characteristically David nobility, he had announced that he intended to “do the right thing”? What
was
the right thing? And why did David sometimes seem not like David but someone
resembling
David,
based on
David, a man-sized, David-like object? When Lila had told her father the news of their engagement, she’d seen it in his face: he knew. He was sitting at his desk in his study, surrounded by the books he loved, stroking glue onto the bowsprit of a model ship. In just the tiniest lift of his generous eyebrows, the truth was written. “Well,” he said, and cleared his throat, pausing to screw the top onto the little jar of glue. “I can see how, under the circumstances, you might want to. He’s a good man. You can do it here if you like.”
    Which he was, and which they had, flying off to Boston on the front edge of a spring blizzard, everything rushed and jammed into place, just a handful of relatives and friends able to make it at the last second to stand awkwardly in the living room while vows were exchanged (it had taken all of about two minutes) before making their excuses. Even the caterer had left early. It wasn’t the fact that Lila was pregnant that made it all so awkward. It was, she knew, that someone was missing.
    Someone would always be missing.
    But never mind. Never mind David, and their awful wedding (really, it had felt more like a wake), with its piles of leftover salmon and the snow and all the