1. Nick #4
“Shh. Don’t ruin our eavesdropping spot,” India says in a whisper so quiet it melts into the sound of the leaves rustling on the trees.
“It’s nice outside,” Mom says. “You have a beautiful home. Truly. I’m… I’m so… glad. Happy. For all of you.”
“Claire…” Liz says softly.
“Don’t,” Mom says. “No pity. That’s not why I’m here.”
My whole body tenses, and I have an almost unbearable urge to slide myself off the roof and put an immediate stop to this conversation. Our business is none of their business.
“How long?” Liz’s voice is gentle.
There’s a slight pause. I feel like vomiting.
“Six months. A year,” Mom says. “Maybe.”
“Six months!” Liz’s voice rings out in the quiet of the night. “Jesus, Claire. My God. And that’s… Why didn’t you come to us sooner?”
“Since when did you change professions? Last time I checked you weren’t a pulmonologist.”
“We have the means to...” Liz seems to be lost for words.
“To what? Hate to break it to you, but you can’t buy me new lungs.”
It’s Mom who’s been diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. But it’s me who can’t breathe.
There are eyes on me and pity in the air. I refuse to acknowledge either.
“I’m sure there are things we can do,” Liz says. “We’ll find the best specialists. We’ll consult—”
“I’ve already seen every specialist.” Mom sounds even more tired than usual. I’m already halfway to my feet. It’s none of their business!
“There is no cure,” Mom says.
More silence. Tense, awkward silence. Because what do you say to that?
“A transplant?” Liz says softly.
“I’m on the list, but… There’s no… It’s…” She fumbles with her words a bit, but then she recovers. “I’ve deteriorated quickly.” She sounds almost matter-of-fact. “And finding a donor… It was always a longshot.”
I want to scream. No, it’s not. Why the fuck does it sound like she’s already given up?
“Then what can we do?” Liz asks. “Anything.”
I’m frozen in place.
A traitorous hope bangs in the middle of my chest.
Maybe.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe there’s something they can do. Maybe these people with more money and more connections and more… everything, will have some magic cure, and they’ll make everything right.
For just a moment, the impossible weight lifts. Just the tiniest bit. The hope and the imaginary relief mix into something almost tangible.
In a matter of seconds, I’ve grabbed that tiny ember and blown it way out of proportion.
And the fall?
I smash to the ground at the speed of light with what comes next.
“When I go,” Mom says, “I need you to promise me you’ll take care of Nick.”
I should have figured, but somehow it still comes as a surprise. A complete shock. The soda can I’m still holding drops from my hand. It makes an unholy noise as it slams against the roof and then starts to bounce down the tiles.
I don’t wait until it hits the ground. I’m already back inside the house. I tear the door of Indy’s room open and fly down the stairs, through the living room and the kitchen, and then I’m outside on the porch.
I come to a screeching halt, out of breath and so angry I’m shaking.
“That’s why we’re here?” I shout. “So you can pawn me off to some other family? To strangers?!”
I’m being unfair. So unfair. But the anger I’ve been holing up now has an outlet, and I can’t stop it from exploding.
That’s why we’re fucking here in the first place, and I don’t know how I didn’t get it. How I didn’t see it.
Mom pushes herself up from the chair. Her eyes are so impossibly wide. “Nick.”
It’s as if everything about her is faint. My ears ring, and it feels like she’s turning blurry right in front of me.
“I want to go home,” I grit through my teeth. “Right now.”
“Please,” she says. “Listen to me.”
“No!” My shout rings out like a gunshot.
“I’m not staying here. I will never move here.
We’re fine. You’re getting better. This is—” My voice breaks, and I hate everybody here even more because they get to witness me breaking along with it.
I whirl around and suck in breath after breath, squeezing my eyes shut because I will not cry.
“Baby,” Mom says softly, and I so wish I could be that.
Just a baby. Somebody who wouldn’t get anything and would just be happy and dumb.
But I’m not. I’m the foundation now. I make decisions.
I shoulder the responsibility. And right now my responsibility is to put a stop to this…
planning for the worst-case scenario, because there is no worst-case scenario.
She’s going to be fine. We’re going to be fine.
“We’re going home,” I say. “You’re not staying here. I’m not staying here.”
I don’t know why I say it like that. Like I’m afraid these people are going to kidnap either of us.
“Okay,” Mom says placatingly. Like she’s calming down a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Okay, we’re going.”
I nod.
Getting to the car is a blur. We don’t even go inside to pick up what little we brought with us.
In less than five minutes, we’re on our way.
I take one last look at the house and the people standing in front of it.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
I’ll never have to see this place again.