Chapter 4
Rachel
“Rachel?”
I look up from my prosciutto sandwich to find an alarmed Trey looking down at me from the door of the break room.
Whether it’s at home or at work, I can’t seem to catch a break.
“What’s wrong?” I say, my mouth still full.
“Someone’s on the phone for you.”
Swallowing my bite in a hurry, I stand.
“Who is it?” I try to keep my voice calm, but an edge of panic still makes its way through.
A list of all the possible problems rushes through my mind all at once:
One of the boys got hurt at school.
Something’s wrong with one of Sophie’s kids.
Martine’s cancer has stopped responding to treatments.
Trey steps aside to let me through the door as I waltz past him. “Your sister, I think?” he manages to say while I pass by him.
Océane.
I freeze.
What could be wrong with Océane?
Shit, shit, shit.
I rush to the pharmacist’s counter, where the phone is on hold, and immediately grab it and press the button to push the call through.
“Océane? What’s wrong?”
“Rachel!” My heart stops upon hearing the panicked tone of her voice. “I need help.” She utters a small moan; she’s in pain.
“Where are you? What happened?”
“I’m at home. I was trying to put stuff on a shelf…” She cries out. “Rachel, I’m stuck.”
My blood goes cold. “Did it fall on you?”
“Yes. I can’t move.”
“I’m coming. Don’t move.”
I hang up the phone and see Sandrine, the other pharmacist on staff today, staring back at me with a worried look.
“I have to go,” I tell her in a clipped tone.
“Everything okay?” she asks while I’m already scrambling to find my coat.
“No. My sister’s hurt.”
“Shouldn’t she call an ambulance?”
I turn to Sandrine, who’s getting on my already frayed nerves. I’m not going to waste precious time explaining why I’m not going to call an ambulance for my sister unless it’s absolutely necessary.
Calm down, Rachel. You’re not her. You’re not them.
“Just hold down the fort while I’m gone, okay?” I manage to say, my tone still clipped.
“Uh, okay.”
I wave a quick goodbye to Trey and the others before racing straight outside, ignoring the blast of icy air that stings the skin of my face. My mind scrambles to calculate the time it’s going to take me to get to Océane’s place.
I haven’t been in a long while because she always insists on coming to my place instead. Finally, I manage to recall that it takes about thirty minutes by metro from downtown to reach her neighborhood.
That’s thirty minutes too long.
My heart hammers against my chest in a frenzy while I sit idly on the metro, waiting to arrive at my destination.
Sandrine is right about the ambulance being the best choice in most cases. They’d certainly get to her faster.
But Océane is vulnerable.
My sister’s fibromyalgia is the least of her worries. In the past, every time she was dragged to the hospital by force by paramedics, the panic and trauma set her back for months.
Thanks to the abuse from our parents, Océane’s mental state is a fragile tapestry of PTSD, anxiety, depression, and dissociative amnesia held together with duct tape and a dream. And that’s only what’s officially on her list of diagnoses.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve argued with a doctor who dismissed her symptoms, spent afternoons playing phone roulette to understand why her approval for disability was lagging behind, or screamed at her psychiatrist until tears ran down my face because he’d made rude remarks to her.
I know better than anyone what she’s going through.
And it’s none of my coworkers’ business.
I shudder to even think of what would have happened to my sister if I didn’t have the medical authority that comes with holding a doctorate of pharmacy. Being ten years my junior, she never gets taken seriously for her issues.
Except when I’m there.
The metro ride doesn’t take that long, but to me, time crawls to a stop and chokes at me until I finally reach Crémazie Station and head back outside. Océane’s apartment is a two-minute walk from the station. I arrive in under a minute.
My trembling fingers make it impossible to unlock the front door of the basement triplex with my set of keys, and I fumble the keys a few times, biting my lip to hold back the curses threatening to spill out.
Gritting my teeth until my jaw aches, I force the door open and stumble in, immediately gagging as the foul stench hits me.
The apartment is filthy.
An oppressive heaviness hangs in the air, a mix of stale food and something else I can't quite place—something rotten, hidden beneath layers of neglect.
My gaze sweeps across the single room, a chaotic blend of her life scattered haphazardly: dirty dishes piled high in the tiny sink, their contents congealed and unrecognizable, and dust motes dancing in the weak light filtering through grimy windows.
In the corner, the small couch sags under the weight of crumpled blankets and discarded clothes. I step further inside, and my foot crunches on the remnants of a broken picture frame, shards glinting like tiny, treacherous stars against the grimy wooden floor.
A double bed is pressed against the wall, unmade and tangled in a fortress of sheets. I can imagine her there, wrapped in that cocoon, battling demons that lurk beneath the surface of her consciousness. The tiny kitchen table holds a half-eaten takeout container and a scattering of old mail.
And then, my eyes land on the shelf. It lies sprawled across the floor, books and trinkets scattered like fallen leaves. Underneath the mess, I can only just make out her small body.
“Shit, Océane!” I rush to her aid, pushing past the mess of empty grocery bags and dirty clothes littering the floor as a pained groan sounds out from underneath the shelf.
Luckily, the shelf is not full size. I’m neither big nor tall, but I’m much stronger than Océane, and it takes me only a few seconds to push it back up against the wall.
When I’m sure the shelf is secure and won’t fall back on us, I kneel to the ground and start shoving the books and trinkets away from Océane.
Océane utters a sob of relief, then struggles to sit up.
I help her by supporting her back, then grab her heart-shaped face in my hands.
A small gash sits underneath her left eye where either the corner of the shelf or a book hit her, and I can tell from several red spots on her forehead and cheeks that she’s going to have bruises.
I look into her green eyes, carefully stroking her cheek with my thumb. “Where does it hurt most? Did you break anything?”
“It hurts everywhere.” She winces and lets out another sob. “My… my collarbone is really bad.”
I carefully touch around her collarbone, feeling for a fracture, and let out a sigh of relief when I don’t find anything.
“I’m gonna check out your ribs, too,” I warn her before moving my hands lower.
She winces at the touch, but nothing is broken. If it were anyone else, I’d be concerned, but with her condition and what she’s just been through, I unfortunately expected nothing less.
I shift my focus back to the gash on her face. “This is pretty deep…”
My heart sinks when I realize there’s a good chance Océane will need to go to the hospital.
“I’m not sure if this will need stitches or not.” I stand. “Stay here. Do you have any clean washcloths?”
“No.”
Shit.
“Okay.”
The most important thing is to clean this thing so it doesn’t get infected.
I look around, feeling despair claw at me from the state of this apartment.
And from the messy state of Océane’s hair, I can tell she hasn’t showered in days.
Her thick, waist-length chestnut locks are drawn back into a braid, but it looks like there’s matting in the back of her head.
“I’m going to need to get you to your sink so I can clean this.”
Océane attempts to stand but crumbles with a cry. I clench my jaw and consider my options. My sister is so small that helping her to the sink wouldn’t be an issue for me, but I’m likely going to hurt her in the process.
And with that gash…
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” I say, my tone firm, though I’m anything but certain.
There’s no way I can bring her to the hospital via public transportation, and there’s also no way I’m leaving her alone to go get my car at home.
Océane seems to be thinking the same thing as me, because she doesn’t argue.
I make the call and grab her pillow and blankets from her bed to make her more comfortable while we wait. Like the rest of the apartment, the bed is filthy. I don’t know when she cleaned her sheets last, but from the state of them, it must have been much too long ago.
I sit next to Océane and hug my knees to my chest. She looks at me with a frown, the pain still visible in her eyes.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she starts, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m really not in the mood for a lecture.”
“A lecture?” I scoff, gesturing to the hovel of her living space. “Océane, we’re way past a lecture here. I’m not mad about this. I’m worried. I’m really worried.”
The part about not being mad is a lie. Truthfully, I am mad.
But not at my sister.
I’m pissed off at myself.
I should have realized something was going on with Océane. Ever since she’s moved into this solo apartment to get away from her toxic roommate, she’s always insisted on visiting me or Will, never the other way around.
And the way she hesitated before saying goodbye on the phone the other night…
How did none of that raise any alarm bells in my mind? She’s got fibromyalgia, for crying out loud. It doesn’t make sense that she’d never let us come to her, especially on bad flare up days.
Guilt gnaws at my insides. I’ve been way too focused on my issues at home. On my growing sense of disconnect from Karan. Meanwhile, my baby sister’s been in crisis, and I didn’t realize.
I can’t blame Will, either. He only recently started to take a more active role in Océane’s life; he doesn’t know her like I do. For all intents and purposes, I’m more of a mother to her than our real mother ever was.
It’s all on me.
Océane doesn’t say anything. She’s aware that telling me not to worry would be in vain. Instead, she pinches her small lips together and lets a tear fall.
“How long has it been like this?” I ask her as a dark thought begins to take shape in my mind.
“Um…” Océane looks around, her chin trembling. “The apartment thing… a while. I just… Living alone like this… I…”
“Hey, hey.” I scoot closer to her and wrap an arm around her frail shoulders, careful not to hurt her. “You should have told me you were struggling.”
“It’s been getting worse,” she continues. “Lately, I’ve just… I can’t even get myself in the shower.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No.” I lean back so I can look her in the eye. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have caught on.”
“You’re not a mind reader, Rachel. You have your own life to worry about.”
“Well, you’re a part of my life, too.” I look around, then squeeze her closer. “You can’t live like this anymore.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she sobs. “I can’t get a roommate. I’ll only be a burden on them, and that’s not a stranger’s responsibility.”
I open my mouth, but she interrupts me.
“I already looked into facilities for assisted living. There are some for younger people like me. There’s one in Pierrefond, and another one in Petite Patrie.” Her gaze falls to the ground. “But they have no room right now. The ones that do have room…”
A shudder passes through me at what she’s implying. There’s no way I’m letting Océane live in a place like that if it’s anything less than wonderful. And some of these places are straight up awful.
The thought lurking in the back of my brain grows, until I have no choice but to face it.
“You’re going to come live with us.”
The words are out. I can’t take them back now.
Océane blanches. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. I’m not leaving you here alone.” I gesture around us again to make my point. “Clearly, this isn’t working.”
“Rachel, I’d love to live with you. But…” She shakes her head. “I’m not your responsibility. I can’t impose like that.”
“You’re not imposing. I’m insisting. And you are my responsibility, whether you like it or not.”
“I’m a grown adult.”
“Who can’t take care of herself!” My heart rate is getting faster. “Océane, this is dangerous. You could have gotten seriously injured, or… fuck, you could have broken your neck. And you’re going to make yourself sick living in an apartment that you can’t clean.”
I’m the one who got her out of our parents’ house. The one who’s been making sure she’s been surviving for the last several years. This responsibility is mine to bear, no one else’s.
Especially not a stranger at some facility I know nothing about.
More tears escape Océane’s eyes. “I can’t do this to you guys. What about Karan?”
“What about him?” I pinch my lips. “You know how much he values family. He’s not going to object to us helping out my sister.”
At least, he better not.
Every time Martine comes by the house without warning, or plans an outing with the twins without telling me in advance, his response is the same.
She’s my mom. I don’t want to stir shit up and cause a fight in the family.
Or, the one I simply can’t fault him for saying:
She’s sick. I want her to spend as much time as she can with the boys.
If Karan keeps letting his mom do all this stuff without asking me… if he constantly cancels our plans because she needs him and she’s family…
… then me bringing Océane home shouldn’t be a big deal, right?
“Are you sure?” Océane asks, her eyes still watery.
“One hundred percent. We even have a room for you.”
The guest room will be perfect for her. Right now, Cayce and Corey share a room, and with us still working through their separation anxiety, that arrangement isn’t changing anytime soon. We hardly use the tiny guest room anymore, since Karan’s parents now live nearby.
Before she can argue further, there’s a knock at the door. The paramedics are here.
And our lives are about to change drastically.