For Fox Sake

Chapter 6

Jake

“I know you think you need to do this alone, but you should call Finley. At the very least let her know you’re okay,” Dr. Dana says, her eyes narrowing at me, the shrewdness of her gaze slicing through me via video call even though she’s on the other side of the country.

I sigh. Damn therapist, always calling me out on my shit and being all logical and reasonable. “I will. I left her a note, it’s only been a week, and I talked to Oliver last weekend. He knows I’m okay. He won’t let them freak out.”

Well, he won’t let Piper freak out. Finley though, who knows? He and Finley have a sort of love-hate relationship, even though they are business partners and very close to being in-laws.

“I still think you should have told them,” she says.

“Noted.”

She taps her pen on the pad of paper in her lap. “Have you talked to Ryan since you saw her at the hospital?”

“No.” I shake my head. I only saw her from a distance when I got home from work last night. She was in her yard, playing with her daughter.

I’ve already explained the sheer panic that filled me when Ryan asked me about the job and the temporary rental earlier this week. I didn’t think I would run into her at the hospital. I didn’t know her mom was there.

Damn small towns. I should know better. It’s a good thing I remembered all those apartments and condos lining the highway on the drive into town.

“The only thing I know for sure,” since I received the DNA results yesterday, “is we aren’t related.”

Thankfully.

Dad didn’t have a second family, at least not one he donated his chromosomes to. Of course, there was also the possibility of the connection being through Mom and not Dad. Mom took off when I was one and I never knew her, but that possibility has also been negated.

I ransacked Ryan’s trash last Friday night, much to my internal shame and embarrassment. But I got what I needed, which was a bit of her hair. I grew up with five sisters. Their hair is everywhere. Plus Ryan has dark hair, and her daughter has blond hair, so it was easy enough to distinguish. Mailed it off on Saturday, paid for a rush job, and had the results by Thursday afternoon.

We aren’t related. Not even distantly, like a fifth cousin or something. No links.

Along with the relief at not being related to Ryan came a whole lotta confusion. If we had been related, that might have given me some kind of answer. Now it’s back to square one. Why? Why why why, the question that’s been pounding in my head for months now.

Of course, it’s still possible Mia was related to Dad somehow, and not Ryan. If she and Mia weren’t full-blooded sisters, Ryan might not even know it. Maybe Dad donated to a sperm bank, and Ryan’s mom was struggling to conceive. I mean, who knows, right? That would explain why Ryan’s letters always had a lot of information about Mia and her life.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered a way to get more info on Mia. Medical info, anyway.

The admin staff at the hospital has been working on transferring old paper medical files into electronic versions. Everything is locked up in a room on the first floor, with all the file cabinets and scanning equipment.

The keys to the door are in Elaine’s office, in the top drawer of her desk. I caught a glimpse of them when Elaine was telling me about the project yesterday. So now I just need to get into Elaine’s office when she’s not there and get ahold of those keys.

“The strangest part of the whole interaction was how I just opened up to her.” It was the first time I volunteered information about what had happened to my twin to someone else.

“Why do you think you could broach the subject with Ryan?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because she knows what it’s like to lose a sister.”

Her head tilts to one side. “Your sisters also lost a sister. And you’re much closer to them. Plus, you all lost the same sister, even if the relationship dynamics weren’t the same.”

I frown. “I know.” It’s somehow different. Though Mia wasn’t Ryan’s twin. From what I’ve been able to figure out, Mia was about a year younger. “I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

Maybe it’s because we’re closer in age. But that doesn’t quite explain it either. Taylor is only a year older than me. Maybe it’s because Ryan is a stranger. Maybe it’s because she left me money in an envelope slid under the front door to repay me for the groceries. Maybe it’s because there’s something about her mere presence that prickles my skin and sends a ripple of warmth through my body.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in two years.

Her brows lift. “Do I get to be proud of you for journaling about Aria?”

I wince. “I’m trying.”

Not trying at all. Actively avoiding.

What she’s asking is impossible. It would be easier to pluck the moon from the sky. Every time I try, my mind fixates on the last time I saw her.

Bloodied.

Broken.

My fault.

Bile rises in the back of my throat, along with the usual terror and guilt.

I push the bubbling emotions back down. I can’t even say her name. How can I write down anything about her?

“Think about something that happened a long time ago, when you were little. Or something that involved your other siblings too. I’m sure you have plenty of material.”

She’s not wrong. With five sisters, I could pen a whole saga.

“You could even just write about her physical traits, what she looked like, an outfit you remember her wearing. Literally anything. When you’re done, you can burn it. You don’t have to share it with anyone, not even me. It’s just for you.”

“I know. I know it’s important, and I’ll try.”

I never took the time to grieve. As a result, emotion tends to slap me in the face or crush me like an elephant sitting on my chest out of nowhere.

I need to deal with her death, confront it, not forget it, but move past it, otherwise the whole reason behind my drinking problem still exists. I don’t necessarily miss alcohol.

What I miss is numbing the pain.

When the session is over and we sign off, I lean back and rub my face. Therapy is like running up a slippery hill on roller skates. Self-improvement is exhausting.

I grab a notebook from my bag, then go to the kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, and head out the front door.

Sitting on the wicker chair on the porch, I open the notebook and stare down at the empty page.

How the hell am I ever going to be able to do this?

A door slams across the street.

Ryan’s little girl skips down the porch steps and grabs a scooter leaning against the fence, pushing it onto the sidewalk in front of her house.

“Hi.” She grins at me, waving.

I lift my coffee mug in a salute and then take a sip before setting it on the blue mosaic table next to my chair.

She rides her scooter up and down the sidewalk, back and forth.

I drag my attention back to the page in front of me.

Focus.

The little girl is singing something softly, the sound barely audible.

It must be lonely, being an only child. It’s not an existence I can imagine, being one of six, not to mention one part of two halves.

My bones ache with the loss.

Tires skid across pavement.

She’s on the move, crossing the street to the walkway in front of my rental. “Do you know how to ride a bike?” she calls out. Her hair must have been clipped back at some point, but now the pink bow lists to one side, her curls waving around her head.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t.” The words aren’t remorseful, more direct. “Momma said I could have a bike maybe for my birthday. But I don’t know how to ride it, so I don’t know if it’s really what I want.”

“That’s very pragmatic of you.”

Her nose wrinkles. “What’s prag-man-tic?”

Before I can correct her, or give her the definition, her head whips back toward her house, like a gazelle sensing a nearby predator.

The side door opens, and Ryan tosses a bag in the trash before the door slaps shut.

The little girl—I don’t think I ever got her name—pushes away from my house, riding her scooter frantically back across the street.

I grin.

And a memory surfaces.

Aria and I were four, maybe five, and spent most of our days following Taylor around when she got home from school because she was a year older than us and Aria worshipped her. She was incredibly jealous of Taylor spending all day in first grade while we were stuck in part-time kindergarten.

Taylor had just had the training wheels removed from her bicycle and was riding all over our property like she’d just been given the keys to the kingdom. Aria wanted desperately to learn to ride without training wheels. Taylor wouldn’t let her tag along on her “baby bike.”

So, while Taylor was in school, Aria stole her bike to teach herself. Except after attempting to ride it down the driveway, she went off the road and into the trees and popped a tire.

She was frantic. I helped her hide the evidence by taking the bike out to the far edges of the property and pushing it underneath an old, rusty, rundown tractor.

When Taylor came home and couldn’t find her bike, she had a complete meltdown. She was convinced one of the guests had stolen it.

Aria was wracked with guilt over the whole thing.

I finally convinced her that we should go to Finley, who was around twelve at the time. She helped us fix the flat tire, and then we staged a whole scene with Aria and Taylor so that Aria could “find” the bike tucked into the trees near one of the rental cabins.

Taylor was so grateful, she spent the whole weekend with Aria, letting her tag along wherever she went.

Aria was so happy. Always so eager to please everyone around her. Family was more important to her than anything.

The ache in my chest deepens. Will the grief ever end? I loved her like there was no tomorrow, and then one day there wasn’t.

“What are you drawing?”

Startled, I lift my gaze from the notebook page, locking eyes with the little girl on the sidewalk in front of the condo.

She’s hanging on to my fence with one hand, her other hand on her scooter handle, while she rolls it back and forth with one leg.

I lift my pen. “I’m writing a story.”

Her head tilts. “Is it about a superhero?”

The corners of my mouth tug upward, the hole in my chest suddenly less vast. “Sort of.”

“I like Doctor Strange. He has a cool cape. I have a cape too.” She gestures to her back.

“That’s cool. I wish I had a cape.”

She pushes the scooter up the walkway, coming a couple of feet closer. “Do you have a dog?”

“No.”

Her lips press together. “What about a cat?”

“No.”

She lets go of the scooter, letting it fall onto the grass as she walks up to the porch steps. “Hmm. My friend Bruce has a dog and a cat and a rabbit and three chickens. I don’t have any pets either,” she adds as if forgiving the offense.

“I do have sisters. They are like animals sometimes.” I pick up my coffee and take a sip. It’s barely lukewarm now.

She giggles. “Are they little or big?”

“Big. Well, not in size, but they are all older than me.”

She hops up the steps and sits in the wicker seat next to me, swinging her legs. “I don’t have any sisters or brothers.”

“Do you want some?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Momma says babies just cry and eat a lot and can’t play or anything for years.”

I chuckle. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I don’t have a daddy.” And then before I have a minute to absorb that nugget of info, she points at my legs. “What’s on your pants?”

I glance down. “Those would be hot dogs.” Archer gave them to me last Christmas. We have an ongoing debate because he is under the delusion that a hot dog meets the definition of a sandwich. He’s a complete savage.

“I like hot dogs. And pizza. And chocolate cake.”

“Me too.”

“Why are you in your nighttime clothes?”

I shrug. “It’s early. I’m lazy.” I need more coffee. I pick up the mug and drink the rest of the brew.

“I don’t have hot dog PJs, but I have rainbow ones. My momma doesn’t wear pajamas.”

I choke.

Holy shit.

Don’t think about Ryan naked, don’t think about Ryan naked, don’t think about Ryan naked.

“She always sleeps in T-shirts and sweats.”

I mop up my chin with my shirt and clear my throat a few times before asking the question burning the back of my throat. “So, uh, what happened to your daddy?”

She shrugs. “Not sure. Momma says she’s my mom and my daddy, and I have Grandma and Bernie who said I have an aunt mommy which is way better than having even three daddies because men are always the problem and not the solution.”

From all my interactions with Bernie at the hospital this week, that sounds exactly like something she would say.

“That’s a fairly accurate assessment,” I agree.

She nods solemnly.

Did she say “aunt mommy”? What does that mean?

Before I can ask any more probing questions to clarify, she sits up straighter, waving her little hand back and forth quickly. “Momma! I’m over here!”

Ryan is frowning at us from her front porch, hands on her hips. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and an oversized white T-shirt with a giant red heart on the front.

Her face dark, she strides across the street.

The little voice beside me yanks my gaze from Ryan’s rapid approach. “Are you coming to my party tomorrow?”

“Erm, I don’t think so. I didn’t get an invitation.”

“Momma!” she calls out. “You have to bring an invitation to my party!”

“What’s the party for?” I ask.

“It’s my birthday.”

“Happy birthday.”

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s not my birthday yet, but we had to have my party tomorrow.”

“I would like to come, but we have to make sure it’s okay with your mom first.”

Ryan reaches the porch, her eyes flicking from me to her daughter. “Ari, you shouldn’t be bothering Jake.”

My heart drops down into my stomach.

This is the first time I’ve heard the little girl’s name.

Did she say Ari?

I stare at Ryan, the name sinking into my consciousness, then look over at the small figure on my left, to her blue shoes kicking up and down, up and down.

Ari.

NotAria. But damn, that’s really close. What if it’s short for Aria?

It might not be. It might mean nothing. There is this thing that I’ve experienced since my sister died, called frequency illusion. Her name is everywhere. From the lips of a woman talking to her daughter at the grocery store, to a character in a movie or book or TV show. When I was younger, I thought it was some kind of sign, like she was talking to me or sending me some kind of message. I know better now.

When something is on your mind, you’ll notice it more in your environment. It doesn’t mean it’s suddenly more common, it’s just that you’re more aware of it. Like when you really want a Porsche 911 GT3 RS and then you see them everywhere. It’s not that there are more Porsches driving about, it’s that your focus makes you notice them when you otherwise wouldn’t have.

But still.

The fact is, this woman who was exchanging letters with my father just happened to name her daughter something eerily similar to my twin. What are the odds? Then again, Ari could be short for Ariana or something.

Ari’s eyes widen. “He’s not a stranger. We talked to him at the store, and he’s our neighbor, and he has hot dogs on his PJs.”

“She’s not bothering me. It’s fine,” I manage to get out, my voice raspier than intended. I lift my coffee cup to my lips. It’s empty. I set it back down.

“So can you come to my party?” Ari asks.

Ryan speaks before I can so much as open my mouth. “He’s probably busy this weekend. It’s very last-minute.”

“I’m not busy at all. I’d love to be there. That is, if it’s okay with you?”