Page 19 of The Voice We Find

And then I just ... let go.

The ground meets me sooner than I predict, and my landing is far from graceful, but at least everything is intact after impact. Including my dad’s drill.

Chest heaving, I lie flat on my back in the dead grass and slowly take inventory of each appendage.No breaks. Good.Seeing as I still have a dishwasher to unload and three piles of laundry waiting for me to fold before Aunt Judy shows up to refresh Gabby’s camp attire, I don’t have time for a medical emergency. The last thing I need is for my aunt to question my ability to run a household.

As soon as I regain use of my faculties, I’m up on my feet. Andother than the flesh wound on my palm, I’m fine. That is, until I pull back the patio slider into the kitchen and see a container of my mother’s peanut butter fudge on my parents’ dining table. The sight sends a splinter through my chest.

“That you, August? I saw your car in the drive but didn’t want to disturb you if you were in the middle of recording something in the studio.” Before I can respond, Aunt Judy strides into the kitchen from the living room, holding up a pair of my boxer briefs.

My eyes narrow on the object clutched in her manicured hands. “Is there a reason you’re holding my underwear, Aunt Judy?”

“What? Oh! Oh my. Sorry about that.” She laughs and sails them into the other room as if that’s all it will take to erase the image permanently tattooed to my brain. “After I collected your sister’s things from her room, I saw the baskets of clean laundry on the sofa and thought I would make myself useful while I waited.”

“Thanks,” I begin, “but you really didn’t need to—”

I’m interrupted by a yelp that’s delivered in an octave not suitable for human ears at the sight of the blood pooling at my feet. And now it’s my turn to look sheepish.

I book it to the sink. “It’s nothing. Just a little cut.”

“That isnotlittle!” Aunt Judy sputters as she runs ahead of me to flip on the tap. “What on earth did you do? Did this happen in your studio?”

“No. Outside.” The shorter and more vague my answer, the better.

“Where specifically?” she presses, grabbing my wrist to place my injured palm under the stream and examine the injury as if she were a nurse and not an accountant. But on second glance, the cut does appear more gnarly than I first surmised.

“The greenhouse.”

Though I’m purposefully avoiding her gaze as I angle my hand out of hers, she isn’t deterred. “How?”

“The roof vent blew off in the storm last night. I was reattaching it.”

I cut my gaze away, but not before I see her horror-rimmed eyes. “Please don’t tell me you were up on that old roof alone.”

Isay nothing.

“August.”

“I’m fine,” I say again, knowing full well she won’t accept this as fact. Neither would my mother. The stray thought rubs at me like sandpaper.

“Clearly.” She heaves a sigh as she opens and closes five drawers looking for what I can only assume is a kitchen towel, which she won’t find seeing as every towel in this house is currently piled on my sofa, waiting to be folded. “You’ve had a tetanus shot within the last ten years, right?” Another drawer opens and slams to the side of me. “I don’t even want to think about what kind of bacteria you could have picked up from that ancient, moss-ridden thing.” Empty-handed, she rotates to face me. “I think I should take you to a doctor. There’s a good chance you’ll need stitches.”

With my good hand, I reach across my body to collect a wad of paper towels and wrap them around my palm. The sting of pain pales in comparison to the sting of my pride in this moment.

Aunt Judy has always been a little over-the-top when it comes to nurturing. As my father’s older sister, fussing over her family comes naturally, I suppose. But after the accident, that particular trait is what held us together even after our world broke apart. She’d organized meals through the neighborhood church my parents had attended for decades, sorted the gifts and endless barrage of cards, navigated Gabby’s female needs, and offered an endless supply of maternal affection I was in no way qualified to give.

Somehow, this nightmare we shared had blurred days into weeks, weeks into months, and finally months into nearly two years. And while I appreciate everything she’s done for us—for my sister in particular—I also recognize how different the two of us are as people.

Case in point.

I tick my head toward the dining table, hoping distraction will tame Aunt Judy’s hyper-fixation on my wound. “I appreciate the fudge. That was thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome.” She moves her hands to her hips. “But if that’s your sneaky way of trying to change the subject, it won’t work.”

Ifeign innocence. “Never.”

Another hearty sigh from my only blood relative in California. “Just promise me you’ll watch for infection, okay? If your mother were here right now, she’d—”

At her abrupt stop, the ever-present chokehold around my throat tightens. If my mother were here right now, everything would be different.

---