Kate
The blaring chime of my morning alarm clock comes a little too early for my liking when I couldn’t fall asleep until nearly three a.m.
When I returned for my second round of bloodwork at the hospital to confirm I’d miscarried, I hadn’t considered that the lab would send those results to my usual healthcare provider.
And, as luck would have it, that healthcare provider is also my sister-in-law.
Thankfully, when Blair showed up at the house that evening with a worried look and the longest hug I’d had since the accident, she was also able to give me a much-needed prescription for a sleeping aid.
But with it being Jackson’s first night at home, I couldn’t bring myself to take it.
In case he needed me, or the kids woke up and went looking for me—only to find a man who looked a lot like their dad lying in our bed but who wouldn’t be able to help them scare away monsters in the way their daddy always can.
Once I’ve woken up enough to roll out of bed, I slide my feet into plush slippers and amble my way to the kitchen, following the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
I can’t help but notice that our bedroom door is still shut, and I consider checking on him, but think better of it right before the ache to reach for him fully consumes me.
Before the accident, Jackson was always an early riser, as ranchers tend to be.
It was ingrained in his very DNA by his father and grandfather and all those before.
Post-accident, he needs his rest, and there’s still plenty of time before he needs his morning pills, so I take the fact that he’s seemingly asleep as a good sign.
Beryl beams at me from her perch on a counter stool. She already has croissants baking, coffee on, and the sourdough starter fed, and she’s casually flipping through a newspaper.
The earlier the sunrise gets, the earlier the cowboys come in to grab their bagged lunches, which we always make the day before.
These days, the guys are typically in and out of here around five-thirty a.m., and it doesn’t matter how long I’ve lived here, I can’t bring myself to drag my ass into the kitchen that early.
“Morning,” I announce wearily to Beryl and to Austin, who’s lost in a mountain of paperwork spread across the table.
He grumbles a half-hearted greeting, then promptly sets his pencil down and looks up once he’s realized it’s me who walked in the room. “How did things go last night?”
“Good, I think?” I sort through the plethora of mugs in the cupboard until I find the biggest one. I think it’s technically meant for soup. “I think it was all kind of weird for him…being here, seeing the kids.”
“It’ll be better for him to be home,” Beryl says, lifting her own coffee mug to her lips and pausing to finish her thought. “Nothing helps someone recover like having people around who love them. You let us know what he needs from us. What you need from us.”
Slow and steady, coffee fills my cup almost to the rim, and I top it with a few glugs of creamer and a hearty spoonful of sugar. I lean back against the counter, relishing the warmth of the mug cradled in my hands and savoring the first sip.
“Right now, this is all I need. Coffee and quiet. A peaceful morning.”
Beryl taps the empty stool next to her. “Then enjoy it, honey.”
With a well-timed yawn, I make my way to sit beside her, settling the heavy ceramic mug onto the speckled white counter.
Looking to the ceiling, I gather my hair in one hand and slowly release it.
The strands fall across the nape of my neck and fan across my lower back, so thick and heavy I feel it through the threadbare fabric of my pajama shirt.
The quiet doesn’t last for long. It never does.
“Mom-uh.” Odessa storms into the kitchen with wild, uncombed hair slapping her shoulders with every step. “Rhett licked my toothbrush!”
I stare at the slow swirl of unstirred creamer ribboning through my coffee. “He’s your little brother. Rinse it off and you’ll be fine.”
Her jaw hangs slack with disgust. “No. Ew. He’s disgusting.”
“Odessa, you put manure in your mouth when you were a toddler. Your brother’s germs are the least of your problems.”
Austin audibly gags.
“There are new toothbrushes in the hall closet upstairs,” I say, not feeling up to fighting with her over a toothbrush.
“Fine-uh.” She turns sharply on her heels and strides out like a grass fire, saying something snarky to her little brother that I can’t quite make out as they pass at the bottom of the stairs.
My head tilts to the side to watch him stumble into the kitchen, Spider-Man pajamas askew and hair standing on end. “Good morning. Can we not pester your sister before she’s had her breakfast? She’s extra dramatic on an empty stomach.”
He shrugs. “I thought it was my toothbrush.”
Yeah, I’m sure he got his Spider-Man one mixed up with her pink unicorn-shaped toothbrush.
Beryl stands and extends an arm toward him, waiting for his small hand to slip into hers without hesitation. “Come on, honey. Let’s make pancakes for breakfast today.”
My palms brace the edge of the counter, preparing to push myself to stand so I can help, when Beryl shoots a look at me. “Sit. Enjoy your coffee in peace. I think my boy and I can manage some simple pancakes without help.”
The creamy coffee goes down smooth, settling in my stomach and warming my entire body from the inside out. Rhett and Beryl waste no time getting started on their pancakes—from scratch, of course—and in a display of questionable judgment, Beryl lets the three-year-old handle the pancake flipping.
“When you see those bubbles there, that’s when you know it’s time to flip them,” Beryl instructs, leaning her hip against the counter and brushing flour from the front of her shirt.
Rhett’s tongue pokes between his lips, and he awkwardly jams the flipper under the pancake, then sends it cartwheeling from one edge of the pan to the other. When it lands, he gives the air a quick fist pump.
“I’m the pancake boss!” he exclaims, spinning on his stool with wide eyes and a grin. “Mommy, did you see?”
I raise my eyebrows and match his wide smile. “Sure did, bud. Good job, pancake boss.”
Filled with confidence, he gets careless in the way he’s standing, and Beryl rushes to shift him away from the flame of the natural gas stove before his shirt catches on fire. “Honey, you have to watch the flame under the pan. Can’t get too close or you might burn yourself.”
At the kitchen table, Austin mumbles into his coffee mug, “I’ve spent enough hours at the hospital lately to last me a lifetime, and I will not be taking anyone there today.”
Beryl gives an annoyed cluck of her tongue. “One day this is who’s running your ranch, Austin.”
With a single breathy laugh, he replies, “I think I might trust Odessa more.”
“I’m very trust-able.” Odessa saunters back in with minimally less attitude than she had earlier. Sidling up next to her little brother, she peers over at the shapes he’s creating on the griddle. “What’s that one supposed to be?”
“It’s a heart,” Rhett proudly declares.
Odessa laughs. “It looks like a butt.”
“You look like a butt.”
I sigh. “Guys, can we get through one breakfast without any talk of butts?”
Honestly, I doubt it. Butts, farts, poop…peak humor around these parts.
“It’s a heart,” Rhett repeats, rolling his shoulders. “It’s for Daddy.”
Odessa abandons the pancake-making operation and heads for the fridge to grab a carton of orange juice. “Dad’s not even out here yet.”
I glance at the wall clock. Somehow forty-five minutes have passed since I woke up, and I don’t feel any more awake than I did then.
I throw back the rest of the coffee in my cup, hoping for a jolt of life. “I’m gonna make sure he’s awake and hasn’t forgotten about his meds. You guys save him a good pancake.”
Odessa throws a look at her brother. “Give the cat butt to Uncle and make a fresh one for Dad.”
“Great,” Austin mutters, shaking his head.
“Oh, you love it, you old grump,” I say. “If you didn’t, you’d be sitting at your own kitchen table this morning.”
Every muscle in my body aches from exhaustion, and I zone out for so long on the stream of cold water coming from the faucet that it overflows the glass, washing over my fingers until they start to prickle with numbness.
“You okay?” Beryl says softly, watching me take a dry tea towel to the sides of the glass to wipe off the excess moisture.
“I’m…here.”
Here is the best I can be today.
My hands shake with the weight of the half-full glass on my way down the hall, soft sunlight filtered through a vintage window covering falling over the floorboards to light my way.
The morning chaos slowly fades into the distance, and my knuckles rap against the door.
Once, then twice, before I hear a muffled voice saying my name on the other side.
I cautiously push the door open to find the room’s still dark, curtains drawn, and the small nightlight in the bathroom working overtime.
The room smells foul, which I quickly notice is probably because of the trash can next to the bed.
I take a deep breath in through my mouth and gingerly shut the door behind me.
Jackson’s curled in the fetal position on top of the blankets.
When I step in closer, I see his palms spread around his skull like he’s gripping a basketball, and he doesn’t look up at me even as I set the glass down on the nightstand.
His clothes appear drenched in sweat, and when the nightlight catches his skin just right, it glistens.
“Migraine?” I ask in the softest voice I can.
His jaw’s tight, teeth clamped together, and a low groan vibrates up from his chest. I take that to mean yes. I squint at labels on the pill bottles lining the nightstand, finding the concoction he needs to take each morning, and I collect them in my palm.
“Here, love. I have some pills for you.”