Chapter 18
Brookes
The kitchen smells like coffee, bacon, and the cinnamon banana bread Janey baked yesterday.
Morning light pours through the windows, warming everything, as the three of us sit around the big wooden table for breakfast. Janey is still wearing one of my old flannel shirts, the sleeves rolled up, looking soft and sleepy in a way that makes it hard to look away.
Last night, I got my hands up under that shirt and made her whimper with pleasure.
If we didn’t have a busy day ahead of us, I’d be tempted to take her upstairs and do the same again.
Mason is shoveling eggs into his mouth like he’s late, while I nurse my second cup of coffee. The bad thing about Janey staying with us is that I’m not getting enough sleep, even if it’s for all the best reasons.
I clear my throat. “I’m heading into town today to see Mom.”
Janey looks up from her plate, with her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Your mom’s in the care home, right?”
“Yeah. We usually go every week. Mason went last time, so it’s my turn.”
She hesitates for only a second before saying, “Shall I come with you?”
I set my coffee down, surprised by how much the offer means. “You sure?” I ask gently. “She isn’t always lucid. Some days we barely talk. She might not even acknowledge you.”
Janey gives me a small, determined smile. “I’d still like to go. If that’s okay with you.”
I glance at Mason. He gives a slight nod, his eyes warm. It’s hard not to read too much into gestures like this, but it seems like a good sign that Janey would want to be included in a family visit.
“All right,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “It’ll be good to have some company.”
***
The care home is a clean, quiet building on the edge of town, with flower beds near the entrance and wind chimes hanging from the porch eaves.
The sound of them follows us inside, tinkling faintly like the ones on our porch, as we sign in at the front desk and make our way down the hallway to Mom’s room.
Janey slips her hand into mine as we walk, and I hold on a little tighter than necessary.
I’ve made this journey more times than I can count, past the framed prints on the walls, the cart with folded blankets, the open sitting room where someone always has a puzzle spread across the table, even though they’re not actually concentrating on it.
Usually, I walk with my chest locked down tight, already preparing myself for whatever version of Mom I’ll find waiting.
It’s been a slow decline, so I’ve had time to come to terms with the change, but it still guts me when she doesn’t smile when I enter her room.
Today, Janey’s hand is warm and reassuring in mine.
My mom looks surprisingly young for her age, even now. Her hair is still mostly dark with silver threads woven through it, and her face hasn’t lost its softness. She’s sitting by the window in a comfortable chair when we enter, sunlight resting across her lap.
“Hey, Mom,” I say quietly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Brought someone with me today.”
She looks at Janey for a long moment, her gaze intense in that way that makes my breath catch. Then she smiles faintly.
“Hello, dear.”
“This is Janey,” I tell her. “She’s important to Mason and me.” The words are simple, but they settle deep once they're out loud. Janey’s fingers tighten around mine for the briefest second, and I feel it all the way through me. It was the right thing to say. “Janey, this is Angela Fletcher.”
Janey steps forward to offer her hand and Mom takes it, leaning closer to study the pretty stranger in front of her.
“It’s good to meet you, ma’am,” Janey says softly.
Mom’s lips part but she doesn’t respond and my heart sinks. Is this what the whole visit is going to be like? Silence and vagueness.
We sit across from Mom. For the first few minutes, she’s quiet, but then, it’s like the sun peeks over the horizon and clarity emerges.
She asks about the ranch, the horses, and whether we fixed the fence.
I answer patiently, grateful for one of the rare windows when she's close enough to reach, even if the questions might be spoken out of a habit that hasn’t yet been lost to her illness.
“The fence is fixed, Mom. Mason cursed at it for two hours, so you know it’s holding.”
A small smile touches her mouth. “That boy always did make more noise than necessary.”
Janey laughs softly beside me, and the sound warms the dull corner of the room.
Then Mom’s gaze drifts back to her. “You brought Melissa,” she says softly.
I tense. “No, Mom. This is Janey.”
She stares harder, her brow furrowing. “Melissa.”
“Mom,” I say gently, resting my hand on her arm. “Melissa was your mother. She’s passed. This is Janey.”
Mom’s brow furrows, and she shakes her head. “Not my mother,” she snaps like I’m stupid, pointing a slim finger at Janey’s middle. “The baby.”
Shock renders me still, and Janey’s hand flies to her stomach, her eyes wide and fearful.
She isn’t showing much yet, but under the loose shirt she’s wearing it would be impossible to make out the soft curve of her belly.
Mom is staring right at her stomach like she can see the secret plain as day and has confidently given it a name.
For a second, I can’t speak. I can only look from Mom to Janey as a strange energy surges around us. She can’t know anything. It’s the dementia speaking. She’s not lucid enough to have worked anything out.
A soft knock sounds at the door before we can respond, breaking the intense silence.
A nurse steps in, and I’m relieved that it’s Brandy, my favorite of my mom’s nurses.
She always has the biggest smile and a deep well of patience that I’m in awe of.
She manages to make Mom smile with a kind, encouraging word.
She’s even helped us out by shopping for Mom when she needed new clothes and underwear, and we were at a loss on what to purchase.
“Angela,” she says in her warm, caramel voice. “Aren’t you lucky to have guests this morning?”
She bustles in, her tightly coiled, black curly hair bobbing as she refills Mom’s water jug and pours a fresh glass.
“Brandy?” Janey says. “Is that you?”
Brandy turns from the sink, and her eyes widen when she sees Janey, surprise turning quickly into recognition.
“Janey? Is that you? It’s been forever.”
Janey rises, still a little pale from my mom’s declaration, and they exchange the quick, slightly awkward hug of acquaintances who have met after a long absence.
“Brandy and I went to the same high school,” Janey explains.
“Small world,” I say as they take each other in.
Mom repeats herself, louder this time. “The baby. She’s having a baby.”
Brandy glances between us. Her professional composure slips, and her eyes widen. “Angela, you can’t go announcing things like that for other people.” She shakes her head and turns to Janey. “Did you tell her, or…” She cups her hand around her mouth and whispers, “Is she in her own world again?”
Janey swallows, then shakes her head. “It’s weird. She guessed. We haven’t told anyone yet… it’s early and…”
Janey doesn’t finish her sentence, but Brandy offers a kind but startled smile. “Well… congratulations.” She looks between us once more, then her expression softens. “We should catch up properly while you’re in town. I’d love to hear how you’ve been.”
Janey nods, still gathering herself. “I’d like that.”
They exchange numbers before Brandy excuses herself to continue her rounds.
After that, the visit winds down quickly. Mom grows tired and confused again, her attention drifting toward the window as though what’s beyond the glass has called her away. I kiss her cheek, promise I’ll come back soon, and Janey squeezes her hand with a tenderness that nearly undoes me.
“Goodbye, Angela,” she says softly.
Mom looks at her for one clear, fleeting moment, then her gaze lowers again, briefly, to Janey’s stomach. “Sweet baby,” she murmurs.
Janey goes very still. I place a hand at the small of her back, gentle enough that she can step away if she wants to, but she doesn’t, and we leave the room together.
***
Janey stares out the window, one hand resting on her belly and her mind lost elsewhere as we drive home. I don’t push her to talk. I know better than that by now. Some thoughts need room before they can become words. Still, every now and then, I glance over at her.
She seems shaken, but there’s more in her expression. Wonder, maybe. Or fear. Mom, for all her cognitive challenges, gave the baby a name, and that name has made it real.
When we pull up to the house, Mason emerges from the barn.
Janey kisses him, and she makes her excuses to freshen up inside, but I know she needs space to process.
I tell my brother everything, and Mason listens carefully, arms crossed, his attention fixed on every word. When I mention that Mom called Janey “Melissa” twice, then pointed at her stomach and said “the baby,” his eyebrows shoot up.
“She knew?” he asks.
“Seemed like it. Janey’s barely showing, and you saw what she was wearing. There’s no way mom could tell she’s having a baby.”
Mason rubs his jaw, quiet for a long moment. Then a slow, awe-filled smile spreads across his face.
“Melissa,” he murmurs. “Could be a girl.”
The possibility settles between us, warm and startling.
A daughter.
Do I believe that Mom felt the pregnancy? Like a second sight. Has she made a prediction, or was she babbling?
I look toward the house, where Janey is moving around in the kitchen.
I can see her through the window, one hand braced on the counter, her head slightly bowed as if she's still feeling the impact of what happened.
The thought of a little girl with her honey eyes, Mason's stubborn streak and my love of books makes my chest ache with fierce protectiveness.
Mason claps a hand on my shoulder. “One day at a time, brother.”
I nod, but the idea stays with me long after we head inside for lunch.
A girl.
Our girl.
I already know I would move heaven and earth to be part of her life.