Part 2
I couldn’t work out how to put the phone down without pulling on my arm, so the nurse helped me. She dimmed the light over the bed and asked whether I wanted more pain medication.
I said yes. My breathing had become shallow again.
While I waited for it to help, I tried to remember when I had decided that a place in my family could be secured by making myself necessary. There hadn’t been a promise. Jobs needed doing, and people seemed pleased to have me around while I did them.
Brooke could disappoint everyone and still be welcome. I had spent years making sure no one ever had reason to be disappointed in me.
My grandmother had noticed.
Edith was tall enough that she rarely needed the kitchen step stool. She repaired loose cabinet pulls herself, wore the same silver watch for decades, and could make a whole table behave by waiting for the loudest person to finish.
The Thanksgiving before she died, I had stayed behind to dry dishes. Mom and Brooke were in the other room discussing which resort Brooke should visit. Edith handed me a serving bowl, then held on until I looked at her.
“Keep the books, Erin. Don’t leave all the counting to Valerie.”
I smiled and told her I was helping as much as I could. She let go of the bowl. I’d thought she was satisfied. In the hospital, I wondered whether she’d decided I wasn’t ready to hear her.
She died the following spring. I was pregnant, working through a demanding quarter, and so relieved to have gotten through her funeral without being sick that I never asked about her estate. Mom said she’d handled things. I accepted that.
Luke called again from the airport. He had a boarding pass for the last connection and wanted to know whether Simone was still at the house.
“She sent another picture,” I said. “Hazel’s fine.”
He was quiet. Then he asked, “Do you want to hear the rest of what your mom said?”
I did. At nine, while I was still undergoing treatment, he’d called Valerie and explained that the sitter couldn’t remain through the night. He’d asked her to stay with Hazel until he got home.
“She told me Brooke had earned this vacation. That she promised to take care of the cat and wasn’t going to let her down.”
I stared at the curtain track.
“I said this was our baby,” he continued. “I said you were in surgery.”
“What did she say?”
“That you’d work something out. You always did. And then that thing about Brooke never putting anybody through this.”
A boarding announcement interrupted him. He missed it and had to ask somebody nearby which group was getting on.
“Luke. Go.”
“I’m trying to get there.”
“I know. We’ll be here.”
After the call, I opened the photo app my sister used. Her newest video showed white deck chairs beside a ship’s pool. She held a bright drink toward the camera and turned her face to catch the sun. The caption celebrated finally doing something for herself.
Brooke was twenty-nine. She called herself a content creator, had a little over twelve thousand followers, and treated her monthly $500 as part of the natural order. Mom had told her the family was paying for her chance to succeed.
I closed the video and opened my contacts. My grandfather’s number was saved under Grandpa W. I hadn’t called Walter nearly enough since Edith died. I usually found a practical reason to wait until tomorrow.
I sent him a message.
Can I talk to you?
Before he answered, Brooke’s name filled the screen. I accepted the video call and held the phone low because raising my left arm made my chest hurt. My sister was sunburned across her cheeks. She moved away from other people and lowered her voice.
“I have been trying to get hold of somebody for twenty minutes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My card. I went to pay for a treatment, and they said it wasn’t going through.”
Behind her, music started. Someone off camera laughed.
“Did you call Mom?”
“Obviously. She said the family account should be covering it. Did you change something?”
A strip of my cast showed in the little picture of myself. Brooke’s eyes stayed on her own image.
“You know where I am?” I asked.
“In bed? It’s late there.”
“I was in a car accident.”
She frowned.
“An actual accident, or are you saying you had a terrible day?”
“A truck hit my car.”
“Okay, but can we deal with this first? We get to Nassau tomorrow. I’ve arranged pictures, and I can’t just show up with a card that doesn’t work.”
Mom had given it a name that made the source irrelevant: family money. Brooke had never had to know who stayed late at a desk to earn it.
“I’ll check the account,” I said.
“Can you do it now?”
“I need to go.”
I ended the call. A minute later, she sent a photograph of the declined receipt.
I left it unopened.
By Wednesday morning, Mom had turned the same problem into a different story. When my phone began vibrating on the hospital tray, I expected an update from Simone. Instead, there were messages in the Bennett family group.
Mom said I had withdrawn support in a fit of anger. Dad was ill, she was frightened, and they had always sacrificed everything for their children. She mentioned my accident near the bottom, calling it a scare that had made me unreasonable.
Then she said they’d always managed their own affairs and didn’t understand why I was being vindictive. Aunt Joyce had replied with broken hearts and a message about the shame of punishing a sick father. One cousin had promised to pray.
Nobody asked how I was breathing or who had spent the night with Hazel.
I began composing a reply. Two lines in, I recognized the voice: careful, apologetic, explaining the situation so that no one else would have to feel uncomfortable. I deleted it and put the phone face down.
At eleven, Luke came through the door carrying Hazel’s car seat and wearing the same clothes he’d worn on the plane. A rental-car key hung from one finger. He set the diaper bag on the floor, looked at my arm, and stopped.
“Come here,” I said.
He crossed the room and stood beside the bed with his hand resting on my hair, unable to speak.
“Don’t start,” I whispered. “I can’t cry and breathe at the same time.”
He wiped his face with his sleeve, nodded, and went back for Hazel. We arranged pillows to support my good arm. Luke stayed close while he lowered her into it. She rooted against my hospital gown, made an offended little noise, and settled when I touched her cheek.
Her head smelled faintly of the soap we used at home. Luke sat on the edge of the chair and kept one hand beneath her until he was sure I could hold her comfortably. We stayed like that for several minutes, answering only the small sounds she made.
Then my father called.
“Bean?”
I hadn’t heard that name from him since I was a child. Frank Bennett was sixty-four, and his voice sounded older than it had at the funeral.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “Your mom said it was a little accident. I didn’t know about your lung.”
“I’m getting better.”
“And the money. Erin, I knew you helped. I didn’t know you were giving up so much.”
He paused. I held the phone tighter.
“I should have asked. You shouldn’t have had to—”
From his end of the call, my mother demanded to know who he was talking to. I heard a scrape, then muffled voices. Luke watched my face.
When Dad came back, the small, hopeful part of his voice had gone.
“You rest now,” he said. “I’ll let you rest.” “Dad.” “I have to go.” The call ended before I could answer…
To read the rest of the story – CLICK the NEXT button 👇👇👇