23. Bailey
bailey
. . .
Sadie wakes me up by knocking on my bedroom door like she used to when we were kids.
Three soft taps.
“Are you decent?” she calls.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling for a second before answering. “When have I ever been decent?”
She laughs, and it’s still my favourite sound in the world. She comes in wrapped in a blanket, hair messy.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says.
Neither could I. But I don’t say that.
She crawls into bed with me and snuggles in close, like I'm fifteen again and hiding from the pain the world keeps on inflicting.
“I was thinking about the nursery,” she says.
Of course she was. She has been thinking about the baby nonstop for days now. Colours. Curtains. Crib placement. Whether the rocking chair should face the window or the door.
Anything but oncology appointments.
Anything but herself.
“I don’t want beige or boring,” she says firmly. “I refuse to bring a child into a beige room.”
I prop myself up on my elbow. “What a bold stance.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
She rests a hand over her stomach, absentminded.
“She deserves colour,” Sadie continues. “She deserves something bright. Something that feels… alive.”
The word hits like a gut punch. Alive.
“I don’t want you reading those files anymore,” she says suddenly.
My jaw tightens. “That’s not your call… I can’t just…”
“It is when you’re up until three in the morning cross-referencing clinical trials that I don't want to participate in.”
I don’t respond and she shifts closer, blanket falling from one shoulder.
“I don’t want you spending the next few months chasing something that doesn’t exist,” she says quietly. “I don’t want you exhausted and angry and searching for a miracle while I’m still right here.”
“There has to be something,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Bailey.”
“No. I’m not accepting this. Not without turning over every stone.”
She studies me carefully.
“I don’t need you to fix it,” she says. “I need you to sit with me in it.”
That’s harder.
Fixing is easier.
Fixing gives me something to do with my mind while my heart breaks.
Sitting means feeling.
“I want you to help me pick her name,” she says softly, grabbing my hand and placing it on her bump. “I want you to help me paint the walls. I want you to be excited.”
“I am excited,” I whisper.
She smiles sadly. “No, you’re scared.”
She isn’t wrong.
Downstairs, Rose is already moving around in the kitchen.
The smell of coffee drifts up the stairs.
For a few minutes, we just lay there together.
Her shoulder pressed against mine. Her hand covering mine over her stomach.
Physically I am there with her in my bed, but my brain is still calculating timelines I refuse to accept.
Later that afternoon, we’re in the nursery. The walls are still a dull off-white. The crib is still leaning in its box against one wall. Cole is sitting on the floor with a tape measure, pretending to debate where everything should go, like placement will change the outcome.
“What about Willow?” Sadie asks, holding up her phone.
“Too trendy,” Cole says automatically.
“Excuse me?” she scoffs.
She paces for a moment and then, “Ohhh ok what about that woman that Thomas worked with at the orchard… the one that he thinks would be great to talk to about animals… What’s her name?”
Cole shoots her a look and she giggles. I lean against the doorway and watch them.
This is what she wants.
This right here.
Not hospital rooms.
Not consultations.
Not flights to specialists.
She wants paint swatches, fluffy blankets, hay rides and time with family.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I step into the hallway to answer.
“They’re escalating,” Rachel says without preamble.
“How?”
“They’re threatening breach of contract if you don’t give them a recording timeline.”
I close my eyes.
“Tell them to send it in writing.”
“Bailey…”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I know,” she says. “But they’re not backing down.”
I lean my head against the wall.
“Can they not see what’s happening?” I ask quietly.
“They don’t know what’s happening,” Rachel says gently. “And you won’t let me tell them.”
“I know. But I can’t… I won’t,” I reply.
Because this isn’t theirs.
It doesn’t belong to the press.
It isn’t marketing.
It is not a story…
It’s ours.
I have always protected this from the life I had to live to earn it. That won’t change now.
“I’ll keep stalling,” Rachel says. “But you need a plan.”
I hang up and stand there for a second longer than necessary. When I turn around, Sadie is watching me from the doorway.
“Is it bad?” she asks.
“It’s nothing,” I lie.
She walks toward me slowly.
“Bailey.”
“It can wait.”
She shakes her head. “It can’t.”
“It can,” I insist. “Everything else can wait.”
She steps closer until she’s right in front of me.
“You don’t have to put your life on pause because mine is ending,” she says calmly.
I feel something inside me recoil.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“I’m serious,” she continues. “You worked too hard. You built too much.”
“I built it for us,” I snapped. “For this.”
“For what?” she asks softly. “For you to burn yourself out trying to save me?”
The silence between us stretches.
“I need you to live your big beautiful life for me,” Sadie says quietly. “I need you… she is going to need you..”
That hurts more than any prognosis.
“You have me,” I say.
“Then if you choose to stay, actually be here,” she replies. “Not in a medical journal. Not in a spreadsheet or on phones with doctors all over the world. Be here with me.”
My phone vibrates again.
Unknown number.
I ignore it, but it buzzes again. I answer without looking.
“What?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then a familiar voice. “Easy, Brooks.”
Jackson.
I close my eyes.
“What do you want?” I ask, softer now.
“I was told you’re refusing to record,” he says lightly. “And that usually means something big is going on. You don’t come across as someone who flakes.”
I swallow.
“Who told you?”
“The label won’t say why,” he replies. “Just that you’re pushing back hard. That’s not like you.”
It isn’t.
Sadie kisses my cheek and then walks away, towards the kitchen, Cole following behind her.
I turn, staring at the unbuilt crib, at the swatches and baby books.
I didn’t mean to tell him.
I meant to deflect.
Instead, the words slip out.
“She’s dying.”
Silence, but it isn’t awkward. It is a silence I learned meant Jackson was ready to listen.
“My sister, Sadie,” I add, because I have to say it fully. “She has Stage IV pancreatic cancer. And…”
I stare out the window while I say it, like if I don’t look at the nursery it won”t hurt as much.
“And, she’s pregnant so there aren't any treatment options.”
“How far along?” he asks gently.
I know he’s not asking about cancer.
“Twenty weeks.”
Another quiet beat.
“And you’re home,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He doesn’t ask about the album, or offer solutions. He just stays on the line with me.
“She doesn’t want me looking for a cure,” I say quietly. “She wants paint colours and baby names. She’s dying Jackson and there isn't a thing I can do about it. She just wants me to give up… accept it and spend what time she has left with her.”
“What do you want?” he asks.
I don’t know how to answer that.
“I want her to live,” I say. “I want a future with my sister in it.”
He exhales slowly.
“I know.”
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor in the hallway.
“I’m not leaving,” I say again, like if I say it enough someone will actually listen.
“Ok,” he replies simply.
After we hang up, I sit there for a minute longer.
The house is warm.
Sadie’s laugh floats up the stairs, and for the first time in days, I let myself just breathe.
Not fix.
Not plan.
Not fight.
Just breathe.