21. Bailey
bailey
. . .
The house smells like cinnamon and apples and something roasting in the oven. Rose has already started planning for Thanksgiving, like muscle memory won’t let her stop.
I am standing in the stairwell listening to them make lists and checking the weather deciding if we can eat outside or in the barn this year., like normalcy is something we can force if we just follow the steps. I finally force myself to move, to follow the voices.
Sadie is in the kitchen with her sleeves pushed up, arguing about stuffing ratios. Like nothing is wrong. Like she didn’t tell me two days ago that she is dying.
I haven’t slept much since. Every time I close my eyes, I hear it again.
Stage IV.
Advanced.
Months.
But when I open them, she’s here. Halfway through a pregnancy.
Alive. Talking about cranberries like the world hasn’t tilted.
She looks almost… lighter this morning. There’s a strange calm to her.
Now that I know, she doesn’t have to pretend for me anymore.
The secret isn’t sitting between us like a live wire.
Now I am the one pretending.
I quietly turn and step outside onto the porch, the cold air biting at my lungs. The property stretches wide and bright in front of me. I can hear workers hauling bins, laughing, calling to each other, even from here.
Life does not pause.
Rachel answers on the second ring.
“I was expecting this call,” she says gently.
“She has Stage IV pancreatic cancer,” I blurt out.
There’s silence on the other end, until Rachel finally says, “I’m so sorry,”
“I’m staying,” I tell her. My voice doesn’t shake. It surprises me. “I don’t care what the label says. I don’t care about recording schedules. I’m not leaving.”
“I’ll try to buy you time,” she says immediately. “I can stall. They don’t need details.”
I close my eyes, picturing the absolute chaos that would descend if anyone got wind of this.
“They can’t know,” I say. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
“They won’t,” she promises. “Just… tell me what you need.”
I look through the window at Sadie. She’s laughing at something Noah just said, one hand absently rubbing her stomach.
“I need options,” I whisper. “I need every specialist. Every trial. Every hospital that has ever treated this.”
“I’ll start compiling,” Rachel says. “Send me her doctor’s name.”
“I’m going with her today,” I tell her. “Scan first. Then oncology.”
There’s a pause.
“Bailey,” Rachel says carefully, “This year has been hard on you, are you sure you’re ready for that?”
No.
But that doesn’t matter.
“I’m her sister,” I say. “I have to be ready for whatever comes next.”
When I hang up, I press my palm against the porch railing and let the wood dig into my skin.
The drive to Summit City feels longer than usual. Sadie sits in the passenger seat, scrolling through baby name lists on her phone like this is any other appointment.
“Do you hate Isla?” she asks suddenly.
I blink.
“What?”
“Isla,” she repeats. “Or maybe Maeve. Something strong but soft.”
Cole’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“You don’t have to decide today,” he mutters.
“I know,” she says brightly. “But we get to find out today. That’s exciting.”
Find out.
The baby.
A girl or a boy.
Life.
The sun is too bright through the windshield. It makes everything feel sharper than it should.
“What about Braxton for a boy or… ohhhh what’s that name of the hockey player you like? Carson is his last name… ohhh what about Carson?” Sadie continues chatting about baby names while my heart feels like it is being shredded with every breath.
We pull into the hospital parking lot and I feel a familiar hum under my skin. It is similar to the one I get before walking on stage. But this isn’t just anticipation, this is mixed with dread.
The OBGYN office is warm, light green and aggressively cheerful. Framed baby photos line the walls. A sign near reception reads ‘Welcome Little Ones’.
Sadie checks in like she’s done this a hundred times and then we sit.
Cole’s knee bounces once before he forces it still. I can’t watch him, his grief is too painful, so I watch Sadie instead. She looks almost normal here. Just another pregnant woman waiting for her anatomy scan. When they call her name, I follow automatically.
The room is dimmed for the ultrasound. The tech smiles when she asks, “Twenty weeks today?”
“Halfway there,” Sadie says, squeezing my hand.
Halfway…
The gel is cold. Sadie flinches and laughs softly. The screen fills with grainy movement, a wooshing sound fills the room and I go still. I see it… A tiny spine. A flicker of a heart. Limbs stretching. My breath catches in my throat. The tech points things out in a calm, practiced voice.
“Heartbeat looks strong. Measuring right on track. Growth is perfect.”
Perfect.
Sadie starts crying quietly and Cole presses his lips together so hard they turn white.
“And would you like to know the sex?” the tech asks.
Sadie looks at Cole first and then up at me.
“Yes,” she whispers.
The tech tilts the wand slightly, clicks a couple of buttons.
“There she is,” she says gently. “You’re having a girl.”
She… A girl.
Sadie laughs through her tears.
“A girl,” she repeats, like it’s a miracle.
Cole bows his head, his hands cradled around the back of his head, hands trembling.. A girl. Another one of us.
Sadie reaches for my hand again, I don't remember pulling it away…
“Bailey,” she whispers, smiling through tears. “She’s perfect.”
And she is. For a moment, the cancer disappears. It’s just us.
Three souls staring at a tiny heartbeat on a screen.
Life.
The oncology office is quieter. The lighting is cooler. The walls are less decorated. The air feels heavier.
The doctor is calm, in his late forties. He has steady eyes and the kind of presence meant to reassure. He reviews her chart like we are discussing logistics.
“Stage IV pancreatic adenocarcinoma,” he says.
The words have a finality here that they didn’t have in the kitchen.
“Advanced and aggressive.”
Aggressive.
“As we discussed previously,” he continues, looking at Sadie and Cole, “this type is often asymptomatic until later stages.”
My hands clench in my lap.
“What are her treatment options?” I ask before he can continue.
He looks at me now. Evaluating.
“You’re her sister.”
“Yes.”
He nods.
“With a pregnancy, our options are limited. Aggressive chemotherapy at this stage poses risk to the fetus.”
“What if she wasn’t pregnant?” I ask.
Sadie closes her eyes, but the doctor doesn’t react.
“Even without pregnancy, the prognosis at this stage is poor. Treatment could potentially extend life by a few months. It would not be curative.”
I swallow hard.
“Define a few,” I pressed.
Cole exhales slowly.
“Two to four,” the doctor says evenly. “Possibly six to eight, with a favorable response to treatment.”
I feel like the room tilts again.
“But if she waits until after delivery?” I ask.
The doctor’s expression softens.
“As I discussed with your sister, if she waits until after the baby is born treatment options become even more limited. The current plan is to treat her pain and make her comfortable.”
The words are measured, but no less devastating.
“So there’s nothing?” I ask.
“There is palliative care,” he says. “We need to focus on quality of life. She wants this time to be meaningful.”
Quality of life.
I look at Sadie, expecting tears. But she is not crying. She is rubbing her stomach.
“I want to enjoy my pregnancy,” she says quietly. “I want to meet my daughter. I want her to know my voice.”
Cole’s hands tremble.
“And she will,” he says fiercely.
I swallow hard.
“What about second opinions?” I push. “Specialists or trials… I can fly her anywhere.”
The doctor nods. “You’re welcome to seek additional consultations. I can provide referrals. But the staging is clear.”
Clear.
I never knew I could hate that word. But here… clear means final.
I sit back in the chair, exhaustion crashing over me all at once. My body feels hollow. My brain is racing through names, hospitals, research articles Rachel sent but I haven’t read fully yet.
We can fix this.
We have to.
Sadie squeezes my hand under the table.
“Bailey,” she says softly.
I look at her.
“I don’t need you to save me,” she says. “I need you to be here with me, with her.”
I don’t respond. Because I don’t know how to be here without trying to fix it.
Outside, the October sun is blinding. People are walking down the sidewalk carrying coffee cups and grocery bags. The world is still moving.
And I am sitting in a quiet sterile room being told my sister is dying while her daughter’s heartbeat echoes in my ears.
I straighten in my chair.
“Send me everything,” I tell the doctor. “Every report. Every scan. Every number.”
He nods.
If there is even a fraction of a percent chance, I will find it.