Page 16 of For Fox Sake

My eyes fall shut. It’s no good. I’m so stressed out that tension is seeping out of my pores at this point.

I have to pull it together. I can’t let Ari see me all frazzled. I count, breathing in for eight and then releasing out for eight while thinking of everything I have to be grateful for. We have a place to live. I have a beautiful, healthy, smart little girl. I can put food on the table and clothes on our backs.

Yes, my mother is in hospice. Yes, some days she doesn’t remember my name or Ari’s, or anything, and she lashes out and it’s scary, but she has good days too. And there are good days ahead.

Please let today be a good day.

The anxiety is the worst on days I bring Ari. I don’t want her to witness her grandma’s erratic behaviors. That’s not how I want Ari to remember her. The nursing staff is pretty good at warning us ahead of time, and I didn’t get a call today, so it should be fine.

My skin prickles.

I blink my eyes open. To my left, where Mia’s pictures are hanging on the wall, the weight of another presence breaks through my attempts at relaxation.

My breath hitches, heart stuttering in my chest. “Jake?”

“Hey, Ryan.”

I blink a few times. What the hell is 2E doing staring at me in the hallway of the hospital?

“What are you—?” I take in his outfit, a navy-blue, long-sleeve button-up with the logo of the hospital stamped on the breast pocket, dark pants, and tan work boots.

“You work here?”

Why is this so weird? I’m so shocked by his sudden appearance I can barely think straight. I haven’t seen him since Saturday, when I plugged in his oven. It’s Wednesday now. His truck has been gone every morning and parked out front by the time Ari and I get home. He must work early. Not that I’ve been paying a lot of attention or anything.

“Yeah. I started Monday. I was just taking a break and,” he nods toward the pictures on the wall in front of him, “checking out this memorial.”

I step in his direction, stopping beside him to face the wall.

The assorted photos and messages are familiar. In the center is an eight-by-ten of Mia in black and white, laughing. I took it six years ago on a trip to the coast when Mia was pregnant. Our last trip together. Her blond hair is blowing back in the wind. She has Ari’s nose and Mom’s lips. Surrounding the central photo are a circle of smaller framed artifacts, a photo of Mia with hospital staff, another of Mia with a long-term care patient, and a few framed cards with handwritten messages.

I vaguely remember someone asking if I wanted to sign it, but it was within a month of her death. I was at home with a newborn and a terrible boyfriend, barely holding on to my sanity. Ari was exhausting, but also the only thing that kept me together. She was a miracle. A little piece of Mia.

“How did she die?” His voice is a low rumble.

I never tell people she died giving birth, although it’s true. The thought makes my hackles rise. I would never want Ari to think she was the cause of her birth mother’s passing. “She had a congenital heart condition.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-two.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor. “I lost my sister too.”

My head whips in his direction. “When?”

Down the hall, a nurse opens a door. I vaguely register the sounds of murmured voices and distant beeps, but my attention is more focused on the man beside me.

“Twelve years ago.” He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow, I can’t believe how long it’s been.”

“How old was she?”

“Fifteen. We were twins.”

Shit. Without thought, I reach out and grab his hand, squeezing his fingers. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“I’m sorry too.”

We stand there, both of us staring at Mia in silence. But it’s not weird. What’s weird is that it’s not weird. It’s completely normal to stand here, staring at my dead sister’s image while holding the hand of some guy I barely know.

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