Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
JESSICA
Chris, Jackson, Sam, and Malice are sitting on foldable garden chairs in the front yard when I finally jog up the street. The sun is almost setting, casting a deep orange glow over the lawn, and I pull out my earbuds, greeting them as I cross the grass.
Chris throws more wood onto a fire pit, stirring it with a poker, while barely paying me any attention as I clap Jackson on the shoulder on my way past.
“Hey, sunshine,” Jackson says, grabbing my hand before I can walk away. “Sit with us. We’ve got beer.”
“Stop trying to get my sister drunk.” My brother tosses the poker aside and reaches for his own bottle that he set on the grass earlier.
Okay, then. He’s still an overprotective douche. But for once, some normality is welcome.
Flipping him off, I steal Jackson’s beer and make a show of drinking it, spilling some down my chin as I step backward toward the house. The others whistle and holler, all except for Malice, of course, who is shaking a dead lighter and ignoring me.
I turn around and go inside to find something to eat. Summer is at the hospital, and I’m heading there as soon as I’ve showered and had a quick bite.
As usual, there’s not much to eat in the house, but I find some leftover pasta.
I’m heading upstairs with my bowl when my phone vibrates in my shorts pocket.
Kane:
I had a whole smooth text planned, but then I thought about you and forgot how words work.
Pushing open the bedroom door with my shoulder, I smile.
Kane has messaged me daily since I walked out of the hospital the other week.
He’s now back at home after the doctor discharged him and has since grown bored and frustrated with how Cash hovers around him.
I get it, but I also understand why Cash won’t leave his side. Hell, he almost lost him.
Then there’s their mom.
After Kane found out what had happened, he called me because he wanted to hear my voice, and we talked into the early hours until I fell asleep on the line.
Another text pops up on my screen as I kick my bedroom door shut.
Kane:
I’m not saying that I miss you, but my coffee tastes fucking wrong and I think it’s your fault.
He can be so silly sometimes.
My cheeks hurt from how big I’m smiling, and I place the bowl on the desk to respond to his message.
Jessica:
That’s too bad. I was missing you, but maybe I’m wasting my time.
Kane:
Pfft! Tell me more. What do you miss about me?
Jessica:
Fishing for compliments?
I stab my pasta while he’s typing a reply, the dots appearing and disappearing. I love that I know him well enough to picture him smiling.
Kane:
Okay, I’ll go first. I miss how you used to tug on my hair when I kissed that sensitive spot below your jaw.
A swarm of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.
Kane:
If I close my eyes, I can still remember the feel of your racing pulse beneath my lips.
Kane:
Do you know what else I lie awake thinking about at night?
I place the bowl down.
Let’s face it. I’m not eating today.
Kane:
Your unwavering belief in me.
My heart begins to thump loudly, pounding against my ribs as I stand up from the chair and pace the small space, chewing on my thumbnail. Why does he know all the right things to say?
Kane:
I wanted to be better for you, and for a moment, it felt like I could be.
Jessica:
And now?
Kane:
Now I’m waiting for you to come to me.
Kane:
Your turn. What do you miss about me?
Jessica:
Fishing for compliments again.
Yes, I’m stalling. My feelings are too complicated to face right now. I’m not ready yet.
He types for the longest time, and I pace before sinking down on the edge of the mattress.
Kane:
Have you ever waited at a fork in the road? Watched the trees surrender their green, then their gold, and then everything? Heard the world go still beneath the first fall of snow?
Kane:
I’m waiting for spring, Jessica.
Kane:
Tell me what you miss about us. Please. Indulge me.
A lump lodges in my throat. How many times do I reread his message before his words start to blur?
Oh God.
But before I can break apart from the sudden rush of emotions, I take a few shaky breaths and let my heart guide me as I finally type out a response.
It’s time to stop hiding behind walls.
Jessica:
I miss how peaceful I felt when you were near, even if everything else was falling apart.
Tears threaten, so I tip my head back and blink until the danger of crying dissipates.
Jessica:
I miss the way you remembered the little things about me, like my favorite coffee order. It made me feel truly seen for the first time.
Kane:
I want to see you. Let me come to you.
Not yet.
Jessica:
I miss the scent of you on my sheets and the feel of your back muscles beneath my fingers when you moved inside me.
Kane:
You’re killing me, baby.
Jessica:
I miss how you made me feel brave even when I was scared.
He starts typing again, but I throw the phone aside and fall back onto the mattress, covering my face with my hands. Why do I have to miss him so much? And why does it hurt so much to be apart from him?
Scrubbing my face and sitting back up, I glance at the phone and see a new notification from him.
Ignoring it, I strip out of my clothes and take a quick shower before throwing on something comfortable to wear to the hospital.
Summer suggested a sleepover, like old times.
So I pack down sheets and all the extras so we can build a fort like we used to when we were little.
It’s a shame we can’t roast marshmallows, but I’ll buy some cheap snacks on the way there.
By the time, I’m closing the front door behind me, the streetlights have come on.
The boys are still where I left them, smoking and drinking by the crackling fire pit.
Chris spots me with my packed overnight bag and pulls his car keys out of his pants pocket. I barely catch them in time when they come flying. “Treat my baby with respect—”
I cut him off, having heard this same speech a million times before. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Not a scratch.”
“I need her back in the morning,” he calls out as I cross the yard toward his car.
I put the bag in the backseat. “You could always come with me.”
That shuts him up, alright.
Opening the driver’s door, I make the mistake of looking and see my brother light up a joint and laugh at something Sam says. My shoulders drop, and I swallow the disappointment, knowing it’s pointless to get my hopes up.
I tell myself that it’s fine, that Mom won’t notice, that she’s not clinging to life because he hasn’t been to see her yet.
She hasn’t regained consciousness, and the doctor says it won’t be much longer now.
We need to prepare ourselves. But she’s still here, fading a little more each day, and I just want my brother to see her one last time before it’s too late.
“I miss this,” Summer says, staring up at the stars on the white bedsheet above us.
The nurse let us bring some chairs in here, and we built our cramped blanket fort, put down sleeping bags, and plugged in her night light that projects stars onto the sheet.
She’s had it since she was a little girl, afraid of the monster in the closet.
Back then, she’d made Dad check every night, sometimes several times, and when he got fed up, he’d send in Chris.
The lamp spins, softly whirring as we look up at the countless stars. It’s the most peaceful I’ve felt in a long time, and I wish we could bottle this moment, bittersweet as it is.
Summer continues. “I miss the weekends Mom built us blanket forts in the garden.”
We’re lying side by side with our heads close together, talking quietly.
The last time we did this, I was fourteen and only agreed because Summer had broken her wrist jumping on the neighbor’s trampoline, which didn’t have a safety net.
Later, I wanted to cheer her up, so we camped out that night, giggling despite the pain she was in until our father told us to be quiet.
“Mom used to read to us,” I murmur. “It was always the same story, but I didn’t mind.”
“Me neither. I liked that it was always the same story,” Summer says softly.
“Life was always so unstable back then: Dad, with his drinking problem and violent outbursts and the fights with Chris. Then there were those rare but precious moments when Mom crawled in with the storybook and we scooted out of the way, fighting over who would get to sit on her lap. They felt like some of the only stable things, you know?”
Yes, I know what she means. Summer was the youngest in the family and only really got to see the worst of Dad. She will never really remember what he was like before his alcoholism.
Which makes me wonder why Mom never left. Why she stayed even when he became cruel, but she always said he was sick and that he was a good man at heart. She didn’t want to give up on him.
But enough of that. Now isn’t the time to think about Dad and how he made our home feel unsafe. I don’t blame Mom for the past; she did her best when everything else was falling apart.
I steer the conversation to a memory that’ll make us smile. “Chris used to pretend he was too old to hang out with us, even when he’d poke his head inside our fort because he knew Mom would give him no option but to join us.”
“He secretly loved it,” she says, giggling.
“He’ll try to say otherwise.”
We dissolve into quiet laughter, and then Summer sighs happily and snuggles closer. “I wish he were here, just like old times.”
“Chris is too big now. His legs would stick out.”
We burst into giggles. It’s not even that funny, but for once, amidst the harsh backdrop of death, we’re just two sisters being silly, and it feels incredible.
“I think Mom would like this.” I keep my voice low and turn onto my side, cushioning my face with my arm. “Hearing us laugh.”
“You think maybe she can?”
I draw in a soft breath, grief softened by gratitude. “I want to believe she can.”
If anything, I hope she’s here with us now, and not in that shell on the bed. But in spirit.