“Festive?”
“Like a party, fiesta, you’re-in-a-normal-room celebration. I need to get you out more.”
My family isn’t here. Not a single one. Isaiah, Rachel’s asshole boyfriend, sits in a chair parked tight to her bed radiating badass: tattoos, earrings, hair shaved close to his head. Through the tangles of tubes and wires hooked to Rachel’s body, they hold hands.
A muscle in my jaw twitches. Ethan and I found out over a month ago that she was seeing this guy behind my family’s back. She ditched school to see him. She ended up in debt to a street hustler because of him. She fought with me and Ethan over this guy when she’s never fought with us before. He’s why her best friend is a drug dealer. It was through him that Abby and Rachel were introduced.
Isaiah’s bad news and he’s the reason why she’s here. He took her to the dragway. She thinks she loves him, but she doesn’t. “Want to get the fuck off my sister?”
“West!” Rachel chastises.
With his hand still entwined with hers, the son of a bitch barely looks at me. “It’s going to take a lot more than you to pull me away from her.”
Rachel’s head whips in his direction. “Isaiah!”
The balloons thump together. Abby flicks her finger against them until we stare at her. “Festive, people. Urinating on the floor like a pair of dogs does not make for a good party. Well...at least one Rachel should be attending.”
Isaiah mumbles something that makes Rachel giggle and Abby starts into some nonsense story. Their voices shift into background noise as I focus on my sister. There’s less than a year between us. She has a twin, but I secretly feel like their triplet. My earliest memories are of Rachel, of her laughing and sometimes of her being sick.
She suffers from panic attacks. Bad ones. It makes her shy and it’s also made her a target, which is where I come in. From elementary school ’til now, I’ve never had a problem connecting my fist to the jaw of any guy that’s tortured my sister and most girls know better than to talk shit about her when I’m around. They’d find themselves having to hang with a new group of people.
My parents don’t understand Rachel or any of their children, me included. They don’t know all I’ve done to protect her since we were small, but they do know about the one time I failed.
Rachel shifts, but her legs don’t move. There’s a buzzing between my muscles and my skin. Like a trapped fly that needs to be surgically removed. Isaiah stands, his mouth moving, but I hear no words. He helps Rachel readjust and once again her legs remain motionless.
As he reclaims his seat, her face pales out and Isaiah and Abby lapse into silence.
“Talk to me.” Isaiah possesses a calm that causes me to hate him more.
Rachel sucks in air as if she were in labor. She white-knuckles the railing on her bed and my fingers twitch with the need to tear something apart...to make someone pay for her pain.
My sister’s heart-monitor beeps increase. Isaiah pries her fingers off the railing and takes her hands in his. “Abby, go get a nurse. Breathe, Rachel. Give me the pain. I can take it.”
Abby stands and I step back.
“West?” Rachel asks through a breath. “Are you okay?”
The hurt in her voice knifes through me. I meet her eyes and shake my head as my sight flickers to her legs again. I’ve got to get out of here before I implode.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I snap my head to the side to take in Dad. I expect him to yell, asking what the hell I’m doing here. Instead he keeps his hand on my shoulder while he mumbles words like “daughter, pain and medication” to a passing nurse.
He urges me into the hallway and I follow. The breath is knocked out of me when my mother collides into my body. Her hands capture my face, then slide down to my shoulders while her glassy eyes survey me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” From over her shoulder, I try to judge my father’s reaction, but his poker face gives nothing away.
“Why did you leave?” Mom shakes me. “What on earth would make you leave?”
“Miriam,” Dad says softly. “Let’s take this into the family waiting room.”
Mom observes me like I’m a ghost. “You left. You know I don’t handle leaving well.”
Fuck, I hurt my mom. “I’m sorry.”
“Miriam,” urges my father.
As if I’m five, Mom slips her hand into mine and grasps it as if her life or mine depends on the contact. Together, we head down the hallway.
“I didn’t know that you were gone until yesterday.” She speaks in a quiet voice reserved for conversation during a church service.