I stop him with a warning look, then put Lucy back on her little feet. Her lower lip is quivering, her big green eyes filled with tears she’s trying so hard to blink back that it breaks my heart. A quick glance at Brent shows me he looks just as miserable, despite his sudden burst of nastiness.
“It’s okay, guys. Your mom’s not upset.” I drop a hand on Brent’s shoulder, squeeze tightly. “She’s been my sister a lot longer than she’s been your mom, so trust me. She knows if there’s a disturbance in here it’s her bratty little brother’s fault.”
“That’s for sure,” Heather says from behind me. “Did I ever tell you about the summer he spent doing nothing but hiding in the dark just so he could scare me? It got so bad that I could barely walk down the hall without freaking out.”
She’s laughing as she says it, and when I turn to her she grins at me. But she’s pale and trembling and more than a little out of breath from the exertion of walking from her bedroom to the kitchen. The fact that she doesn’t have much time left—that the cancer that has been ravaging her blood for the last eight months is winning despite the best treatment my money could buy her—is written in her gaunt cheeks, her slumped shoulders, the shadows under her eyes. Though she’s looked like this for weeks, it still hits me right in the gut. Still makes me want to hit something, anything, back.
I want to scold her, want to tell her that she should be in bed, resting. But she already knows. Just like she knows the time she has with her children is running out. And if she wants to hang out in the kitchen with them for a little while, who am I to tell her no?
Besides, as my older sister by seven minutes—a fact she’s spent her life lording over me—she’d somehow find the strength to kick my ass for even trying.
I settle for trying to keep things as normal as possible. “Apparently, Brent made brain meatballs with Marta today. Did you try them?”
“Brain meatballs?” she asks as she starts toward the nearest chair. “I don’t think I did try them.” She’s unsteady on her feet and every instinct I have tells me to go to her, to help her. But she won’t thank me for it, especially with the kids looking on, so I settle for watching until she’s safely seated. Then I cross to the fridge and pour her a glass of the specially blended superjuice I have delivered for her twice a week. It’s loaded with vitamins and antioxidants that are known immunity boosters and cancer fighters.
Lately Heather’s been refusing to drink it—claiming it hasn’t helped so why should she suffer with the gross taste—but I know she won’t say anything with the kids looking on. And maybe it’s shitty of me to take advantage of my niece’s and nephew’s presence like this, but to be honest, I don’t care. Any extra bit of nutrition I can get into my sister I’m going to consider a win.
“Mom had soup for dinner,” Brent says quietly, and I can see in his eyes that he knows what’s coming. That he is as aware of how fragile she’s become as I am. I hate that—hate that I can’t shield him from it, hate even more that he has to go through this at all. I know the pain of losing a mother early. I can’t stand the idea of him going through what Heather and I did. Especially since his father fucked off several years ago and hasn’t been heard from since.
When Heather dies—if she dies, I remind myself fiercely—Lucy and Brent are going to be alone in the world. They’ve got me, and I’ll do my best by them, but shit. Heather’s a great mom and I’m just their uncle. There’s a world of difference between the two.
“Well, I’ve got a whole bunch of them here,” I say, pulling out the plate Marta put in the fridge for me when she left at seven. “Want to try them?”
It’s another low blow, using maternal guilt to try and get her to eat a little more. But since she’s wasting away in front of my eyes, I don’t feel bad about it. Like the juice, I’ll use whatever means necessary to keep her eating.
To keep her with us, just a little bit longer.
“I would love to try a brain meatball,” she says, smiling warmly at Brent. “How about you, Lucy? You want to share one with me?”
“No way. I like meatballs, not brainballs.”
“Brainballs are meatballs, dork,” Brent says. “Brains are considered meat.”
I start to correct him, to tell him not to call his sister a dork, but Heather’s already reaching for him, pulling him down into her lap. And though I want to protest—he weighs almost as much as she does at this point—I don’t. Because they both need this moment of normalcy more than I need to protect her.
Not that I can protect her from this. All my money, all my connections, I’ve used everything I could and none of it has mattered. None of it means anything when it comes to keeping my twin sister alive.
I watch her hold Brent, watch the way Lucy comes from the side to join in the cuddle, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Makes me want to burn down the world. But that won’t help her, won’t help them. And that’s what I’m in this for. What I promised her—and myself—when she first got sick. I will help Brent and Lucy get through this. I just wish I had a clue how the fuck I’m supposed to do that when I can barely wrap my head around it myself.
The house is the first step, I tell myself as I heat up the plate of spaghetti. A place that’s different from this. A place where they can be comfortable, where memories of their mother dying don’t lurk around every corner. A place that can one day feel like a home.
I divvy up the food, putting a few meatballs and some spaghetti on a plate for my sister. I carry both plates to the table, along with a couple extra forks as I know my niece and nephew, then bring over the superjuice for her and some water for the rest of us.
We spend the next hour talking and laughing around the table and it almost feels like old times. Almost feels normal. Except Heather only eats a bite of one meatball—so she can praise Brent’s skills—and at the end of the hour is so tired that I have to carry her through the condo to her room.
I help her get into bed, then start to turn the light off so that she can try to sleep, something she’s not doing much of lately because of the pain. But she reaches out, grabs on to my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip considering how weak she is. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I play dumb. “For making you eat a brainball?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
“Anytime, big sis.” I bend down and press a kiss to her forehead. “Anytime at all.”
Chapter 10
I roll up to the stadium at six A.M
. Wednesdays are usually our early days—Coach wants two hours of game tape and three hours on the practice field before spending the afternoon with whatever part of the team he deems necessary. This week it’s defense, thankfully, which means I’ve got the afternoon free to house hunt with Emerson.