35. Indy
THIRTY-FIVE
INDY
I sneak out of bed in the middle of the night. Nick doesn’t wake up. He mumbles something in his sleep, but then he settles again when I slide my fingers through his hair.
I resist the urge to climb back in next to him and sneak out of the room, closing the door quietly behind myself.
I’m tired, but I haven’t been able to fall asleep. There’s a restless churning in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t shake it.
Everything about that scene in the hospital was weird. I can’t put my finger on what exactly makes my thoughts circle back to it over and over again. It’s more a feeling. But it’s the kind that’s like acid, just bubbling away, burning its way through my insides.
I make my way down the stairs, the steps cool underneath my bare feet. I’m not even fully downstairs when I hear the tense voices coming from the office.
I hesitate for a second, but then I sneak forward. My parents’ voices become clearer with every step I take.
“…keep pushing it forward,” my dad says. “Especially with what you’re asking him to do.”
I’ve never heard him sound so stiff. Dad is laid back to the point where it sometimes borders on being absent, because when inspiration strikes, his art takes precedence. Always has.
“We need to tell them,” Dad says. “It’s high time. If anything, this is a sign.”
“Not everything is a sign, Gus,” Mom says in an exasperated voice.
“We need to tell them.”
I push the door open. “Tell us what?”
They both jerk around to look at me.
Dad recovers first.
“Gus,” Mom says with clear warning in her voice.
He grabs a paper from the desk and holds it out toward me.
“Gus!” Mom snaps.
“I’m sorry for all of this,” Dad says, holding my gaze. “It all got out of hand, and… We didn’t know how to do this any better.”
There’s a sickening feel to a heartbeat that goes into overdrive too fast.
There’s a moment when your eyes move over the words, but your brain refuses to process them.
For what? it asks you. Why bother? This is ridiculous. A waste of resources. No. No, thank you. I’ll pass. Get back to me when you have something reasonable to discuss.
But the paper in my hands is very real. And the words look real, too.
I read it. Over and over again.
Thoughts race around in my head.
I look up.
“What is this?” My voice is a croak.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says again. “We didn’t know how to tell you. Or if. Or when.”
I clutch the paper in my hand, fingers curling into a tight fist.
“Does Nick know?” I swallow, trying to force down the lump in my throat. “Dia? You have to tell them.”
It’s like grabbing a lifeline. To keep my world from totally crumbling around me, I have to grab onto the little things.
“No,” Dad says quietly.
“And you can’t say anything.”
I stare at my mother.
She draws in a shaky breath before she catches herself and squares her shoulders. “I mean it, Go.”
I keep staring at her. “You can’t keep it from them. You should never have kept it from any of us!” I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is indignation, anger, or panic. Maybe a mix of them all. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.
“Please.” My voice cracks.
Mom steps forward. In less than a second, she’s transformed into a stranger. This isn’t my mother. This is somebody new. Somebody unapproachable and unreasonable.
I can’t speak. Or move. My brain needs to send an order for those things to happen, but it’s too busy going through everything I just read.
“You cannot tell anybody anything. Not right now,” she says.
“I have to! I can’t hide it. I… We… Nick. He…” I snap my mouth shut and try to breathe, but there’s nothing. In some distant part of my brain, I register the door opening and closing. Then my inhaler is pressed into my palm.
Nick and I are supposed to move away together. I love him. I can’t do this to him. I can’t—
“You need to look at the big picture, Go,” Mom says firmly. “You can’t tell anyone right now. Your sister’s life is on the line. Do you realize just how dangerous her diagnosis is? Without a matching donor, she will die. Do you understand this? Not to mention the stress it’d cause her.”
All the air I managed to pull into my lungs disappears.
Did she actually say these words?
“Nick will still be there for her,” I manage. Barely.
“Will he? Or will he throw one of his temper tantrums?” Mom asks. She sounds almost gentle. Apologetic. I’m sorry to break it to you, Go.
I shake my head.
He will. It’s Nick. I know him better than anybody in the world. Of course he’ll help.
“I’m not willing to gamble your sister’s life on it,” Mom says. “Are you?”
Am I?
In the end, I’m not a match.
But Nick is.