Page 80 of Twisted Fate

I’m not sure how much time passes before any of us move. We leave the room; Dad is all but carrying Mom through the hospital as she wails into his chest. I walk in front of them, oblivious to, or not caring about, the people who turn to look at us. Have they never seen people leaving the hospital after losing a loved one? It’s ridiculous.

We sit in the parking lot and stare at the building where Adam is lying dead, his body not strong enough to fight off pneumonia because it was weak from the medicine meant to make him better.

“Okay?” Dad asks, breaking the silence in a voice so beaten down my chest tightens.

Mom says nothing, just sits there staring at her hands while her shoulders shake with soundless sobs.

“Drive,” I mumble from the back seat. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes. More than anything, I wish that I could go back in time and never have left his side.

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Once we get back to the house, Dad helps Mom into the living room, and I retreat to my room, not ready to endure what comes next. We’ll have to call the family and tell them that Adam got worse and didn’t make it. Nothing makes sense right now, not now that Adam is gone.

Gone. He’s never coming back. I’m in a state of confusion and denial. I think about him being gone, and it’s as if I don’t believe myself. It doesn’t matter that I stood at the hospital and listened to the doctor tell me he was dead, or that I saw his still body, covered in ugly hospital bedding. I still don’t believe it.

Tears leak out of the sides of my eyes and fall down my cheeks. I turn my face and press it into my pillow to muffle the sob that rips free from my throat. I scream at the top of my lungs, then cry, my entire body wracked with tremors until there’s nothing left, and I’m dry heaving. Every muscle in my body aches. I can’t force myself to move, to get up and drink some water to ease the terrible burn in my throat. A part of me doesn’t want the pain to stop. Once it does, I’ll either start crying again or feel nothing at all, and that fact scares me so much I can’t move.

Adam didn’t deserve to spend the end of his life as an invalid, enduring treatment and being poked with needles. He didn’t deserve to have cancer or to die, but I figure most people who have suffered the same fate didn’t deserve it either.

It’s been a week since Adam died and was cremated. My parents are holding off on a funeral to give our extended family time to arrange travel plans, so his service isn’t until next Sunday. They’re both off work on bereavement, but I’ve already missed a week of classes.

I’ve learned in the last several days that everyone grieves differently. While Mom and Dad can’t think about going back to work yet, Ineedto go back to school. I needsomethingI can put my energy into that isn’t thinking about my little brother. He wouldn’t want me to be sad forever, even if deep down that pang of loss will always be there.

I’ve spoken to Allison a couple of times since it happened. Tristan calls every night and stays on the phone while I cry myself to sleep. Both of them wanted to come to Mapleville, but I wouldn’t let them, fearing it would make everything feel more real. I’m barely hanging on as it is.

My parents drive me back to Rockdale after dinner Sunday evening, and it’s never been so difficult to say goodbye to them, even though I’ll be home again in less than a week.

“You don’t need anything before we head back? Groceries or anything?” Mom asks.

I manage a small smile. “I’m okay.”

They’re having as much trouble saying goodbye as I am. If I think about them driving back to an empty house, I’ll never let them leave. I’m sure Tristan would give them a suite at the hotel, but I wouldn’t ask that of him, and they wouldn’t want to live in a hotel for a week—no matter how fancy it is.

I hug them both for a long time, praying Mom won’t cry again. I won’t be able to hold back my own tears if she does, but I’m thankful she keeps it together.

Once they’re gone, I head to my room and dump my duffle bag on the floor beside my desk. Allison isn’t here, so I write her a note that I’m back in the city before I leave, walking with my head down through the residence building. I feel eyes on me everywhere; word travels fast around here.

At the campus streetcar stop, I stand in the pouring rain without so much as a hood to cover my head. When the streetcar arrives, I stare out the front window the entire ride and get off at the stop I’ve gotten so used to over the last few months.

I swipe my all-access employee card and ride to the penthouse suite. My reflection in the mirrored panel of the elevator makes me cringe. I look like a drowned homeless person. My hair and clothes are soaked through, and yesterday’s mascara that I’d put on to meet with the funeral director streaks down my cheeks.

Once I get off the elevator, I stand in front of the door for a lifetime before I knock. My hand shakes as I rap against the dark wood with a closed fist. Water from my hair drips down my face and onto my shirt. My body shakes, and my toes are all but numb—like the rest of me.

The door swings open, and I lift my head until our eyes meet. His expression is hard, the sharp lines of his face defined by the dim light behind him.

He closes his eyes and lets out a breath. It’s such a human thing to do. “Aurora,” he says in a hushed tone.

When he opens his eyes, he reaches for me, but I flinch away. If he touches me, I’ll come undone.

“I . . . don’t know...why I’m...here,” I admit through chattering teeth.

He ushers me inside. My skin sings at the warmth of his living room, but I feel awkward dripping rainwater on his floor.

“You’re going to get sick,” he says.

I don’t respond.

He sighs. “Skylar,” he calls.

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