Chapter 3
Fayetteville, Arkansas
The autumn dance recital is a few days away. My name is printed in glitter on the program, right next to Soloist. That should mean everything. But it doesn’t, not right now.
Rehearsals are supposed to be my world. All full of music, laughter, and counting to eight. But I keep turning toward the door mid-spin, hoping I’ll see Mama watching. Hoping she’ll clap and call me her little star. Half-hoping. Half-dreading what it means when she isn’t here.
Deep down, I know it. Mama is fading.
The mornings are quieter. No more humming over pancakes.
No more playful spins between the fridge and the sink.
She still smiles. Still kisses my forehead.
Still packs lunches with sticky notes that say things like, Keep your heart in the music, Sugar Bear.
Her hugs are longer now, almost like she’s afraid to let me go.
“Want me to braid it for you tonight?” she asked softly the other night.
I nodded and sat between her knees, just like I had a hundred times before. Her fingers moved through my hair slower than usual. She paused halfway through.
“Mama?” I asked.
“I’m okay, sweetheart,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
But she wasn’t okay.
She isn’t okay.
Daddy has stopped stomping around in his work boots like the floor might shatter beneath him. Aunt Claire and Uncle Jack show up without calling, their smiles tight. They are over all the time now. It’s like they’re trying to hold the world together with good intentions and fraying hope.
And one night, through the wall of my bedroom, I heard Mama cry. Not loud. Not the kind you let someone hear. The kind that leaks out quiet and raw. The kind you try to keep hidden, but can’t.
The day I found clumps of her hair in the bathroom trash, something inside me shattered. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to. I just crawled into bed with her and curled up close, wrapping my fingers around hers like I could somehow hold her in place.
We fell asleep like that.
???
Uncle Jack’s scar curls down his left forearm, old and quiet. He gives me a small smile. He doesn’t usually pick me up from school, so I know something is wrong.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says crouching next to me. His emerald eyes meet mine, steady and calm. “Change of plans. Your mom had a little scare. Nothing to panic about, but I’m taking you to the hospital.”
We don’t talk on the drive. No music. No jokes. The window is cracked and the air is cold, but I don’t roll it up. I count the leaves we pass, orange and burgundy blurs, pretending if I make it to a hundred everything will be okay.
I stare without seeing, fingers clenched in Uncle Jack’s hand. His thumb traces soft circles on my palm. Not enough to stop the fear climbing up my chest, but enough to remind me I’m not alone.
My heart thuds louder with every mile. “Uncle Jack,” my voice shakes. “Is she gonna be okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just shuts off the engine, turns to face me, and brushes a stray hair from my face.
“She’s strong, Bells. Stronger than anyone I know.”
That’s not a yes.
I follow him through the sterile maze of the hospital, my shoes scuffing faintly against the too-clean linoleum. The air smells like disinfectant and something sour underneath.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and cold, casting stretched shadows that cling to the floor like whispers. My chest aches. Every breath shallow. Panic simmers just under my skin.
The nurses behind the counter smile that rehearsed smile, all pity and no comfort. It makes something inside me angry. I want to run. To turn back time.
When we reach Mama’s room, Uncle Jack kneels beside me.
“She’s tired. But she wants to see you.”
Daddy and Aunt Claire are already there. Daddy sits hunched beside the bed, his large, calloused hand trembling as he brushes hair from Mama’s forehead. His eyes are bloodshot, jaw locked. Every breath he takes sounds thick, like it hurts just to breathe.
Aunt Claire stands at the foot of the bed, one hand pressed to Mama’s chart. Her face is pale, lips tight, and her eyes are glassy and rimmed in unshed tears.
Just as I step inside, a man walks in.
Dr. Callahan.
He gives me a small nod, turns to Daddy and Aunt Claire, something heavy in his eyes. “Can I speak with you both in the hallway for a moment?”
Daddy looks from me to Mama, reluctant, like leaving her for even a second will break him. Aunt Claire touches his arm.
He leans down, kisses Mama’s forehead, and whispers to her. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn back to Mama, my chest tight with fear. “Mama?”
She opens her eyes and smiles soft, small, but real. “Hi, Sugar Bear. Come here.”
I crawl into bed beside her and rest my head against her chest. “I missed you today,” I whisper.
“I missed you more.” Her fingers stroke my hair. “How was school?”
“It was ok. At recess, I showed my friends the new routine. It was hard, but I danced really good, Mama.”
“That’s my girl,” she whispers. “Keep dancing. No matter what. You hear me?”
I nod and close my eyes. From the hallway, I hear Daddy’s voice rise, sharp, raw, and angry.
“What do you mean there’s nothing else you can do?” he roars. “You’re a goddamn hospital, don’t just stand there! DO SOMETHING! That’s my wife in there. The woman I built my world with. You don’t get to shrug and walk away!”
“Henry, please,” Aunt Claire says. “Calm down. Let him talk. Yelling isn’t going to help.”
“I don’t need calm, Claire. I need fucking answers! What am I supposed to tell Bella?”
Their voices echo down the hallway tangled with grief, panic, and rage. I stay curled beside Mama. And even though her hand still moves through my hair, even though I’m still holding on, I can’t stop the tears from falling.