Page 134 of Habits

But she’s not in the clear. I know it because if she were, there wouldn’t be a dark shadow falling over his face.

“Dad wants us to stop by our house and grab some of her things.

“I-”

No, just no. I have to see her. I have to see that she’s okay with my own two eyes. I have to take her hand and see her chest rising as she breathes, and I need it now.

I want to protest so badly. Throw a temper tantrum, demanding we go straight to the hospital to see her. But I can’t do that to Max. His fear is so strong I can almost taste it mixing with my own and making the air in the cabin of the car so stiff, we can barely breathe.

“I know, but she’ll feel more comfortable when she wakes up if she has her own things.”

She’ll feel scared and miserable if she wakes up and we’re not there.

The words burn in my mouth, but I swallow them down. I know this is not his choice. He’s doing what his dad thinks is best, so when we get to Greyford and I see the turn that leads to our houses, I take it.

* * *

Max

Andrew parks the car hastily, and I jump out before it even stops completely. Without saying a word, I run inside. The hallway is lit, and I can see light coming from the living room, but I ignore it as I climb two steps at a time.

What the fuck happened, Anette?

When I get upstairs, first I go to my room to grab a bag. I don’t want to lose time going through her shit trying to find one. The last thing I wanted to do was be here while Jeanette was lying alone and broken in a hospital bed again.

Fucking broken.

When Dad called and said she’s in the hospital, all I could do was remember that day two years ago. I saw her collapse over and over again. At first I thought she just lost her balance because of the alcohol, but she never got up. For months after it happened I had nightmares. The image of her small, fragile body in the big hospital bed still makes my stomach turn. I picked her up in my arms and called 9-1-1.

That was the first time I realized how small she was, how skinny. She was always wearing baggy clothes, and to be honest, I was too preoccupied with what was happening in my own life to notice she was withering away. My own twin.

And now she’s back there again.

Why does this keep happening?

Anger flows through my veins and I can barely keep myself from falling apart. I want to curl my fingers in a fist and punch something. Anything.

Grabbing the first duffle I can get my hands on, I leave my room and go across the hall.

Jeanette’s room is the same. The bed is messy, pillows thrown all over. Books on her desk are open. She was probably doing her homework. Violin box is carefully leaning against the nightstand. Some of her clothes are thrown over a chair, and one pair of boots is left scattered in front of her closet.

Normal.

I open her closet and start pulling things out. A pair of pajamas. Make it two. Some T-shirts, leggings, sweaters. That girl is always icy cold. I throw in some socks and underwear. Charger and her iPad.

My eyes scan the room for anything else she might need when she wakes up.

You have to wake up, sis.

Still going through my mental list of essentials, I walk into her bathroom.

There is so much girly shit on the counter, I don’t even know where to begin. I run my fingers through my hair in frustration.

Deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste …

I start opening the drawers. More make-up, all the girly shit, wipes …where the fuck does she keep unopened toothbrushes? I squat down to open the last drawer and there they are.

I throw one in the bag.

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