Page 84 of True North

He bursts around the back of the barn, rushing toward me, terror contorting his features. He all but collides with me. Covered in dirt and grease, he grabs my arms. “Louisa?”

My face crumples, my head tilting. “It’s Ma. Please hurry, she collapsed. I think it’s her heart.”

“Dammit,” he growls, taking off toward the house. I take off after him. I can’t stop the tears flowing down my cheeks. My heart thunders, panic clawing at my insides. I groan, pushing it down.

Not. Now. Louisa.

We arenotdoin’ this now.

I hesitate, the rough grass prickling under my feet. With every breath, I will the hideous effects of anxiety back down.

Time and place.

And this ain’t it.

Semi-composed, I take off at a run for the house. The gravel bites my left foot. I don’t bother looking down.

Fear for Rosie drives me forward.

By the time I make it back to the kitchen, I realize I have lost a shoe, and Ma is lying on the sofa. Harry is pacing, the phone receiver in one hand, the other running through his messy hair. The long spiral cord stretches out and collapses against the wall with every lap he takes.

I limp to where Rosie sits and sink onto the side of the sofa. I swipe at my face, trying to dry it off. Her eyes are closed. Her breathing is steady but too shallow, and she looks so small. Her fine hand slides from her side, wrapping around mine.

“Promise me you’ll take care of him for me.”

“No, Rosie, please...” I force the words past an impending sob.

“I’m handing this ship over to you, my girl,” she gasps.

I shake my head, dislodging welled-up tears.

Her expression turns pleading.

I nod. “I will, I promise. I got it.”

The smallest smile moves her lips, and she closes her eyes. Harry appears by my side. “Ambulance is on its way, might take a while, though.”

Rosie opens her eyes at the sound of his voice.

He leans over, taking one of her hands. “How’s the pain, Ma?”

Her breath hitches, and she winces.

That’s not good.

“Ma?” Harry drops to his knees by the sofa, both of his hands now wrapped around her frail one. “Hold on, please.”

Her head shakes, as if saying no. And when she turns to her son, a tear glides down her temple, soaking into the worn fabric beneath her.

“Water,” she rasps.

He bolts to his feet and rushes into the kitchen. Rosie’s gaze finds me.

“I did it for him—my boy,” she whispers, taking my hands in hers.

“Did what, Rosie?” I say, matching her soft tone, barely audible.

“I had to.” Her face breaks, but she schools it back. “This is my penance. He never would have let you two have any of this. He wasn’t going to let Harry have...” Rosie glances toward the kitchen.

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