As I made my way from the hospital to the Atlas, I did so in a daze. Standing before the refurbished door, I had no idea how I’d gotten there.
I startled when someone brushed past me on the sidewalk. Despite the cool spring air, the brief contact gave me such a chill, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see my breath. I searched the people going down the sidewalk, but nothing stood out.
When I gave up and turned to go inside, something made me glance down the street again. A woman with platinum hair was looking over her shoulder at me with a knowing grin. I blinked, and the crowd swallowed her up. I shook it off as emotional delusions and pulled the heavy door open.
The dim interior was filled with the low hum of multiple conversations, the clink of bottles and glasses, and the smell of history. If the tin ceiling and dark wood wainscoted walls could talk, oh the stories they’d tell. Foil shamrocks hung from the ceiling for St. Patrick’s Day, but they weren’t sprinkling any luck on me. The last thing I felt was charmed.
A hand raised at the bar and waved wildly. Niara peeked around the person sitting next to her, and I realized the hand belonged to her. Sleek red hair in a high ponytail, lips bloodred and curved into a smile over her martini glass, my friend motioned to the barstool she’d saved for me.
Shouldering through the patrons and ignoring the lingering stares of several of the men in the establishment, I made my way through the bar to her.
“Got yours coming up,” Niara said as she sipped from her glass.
“Thanks.” I hung my purse on the hook under the bar and draped my jacket on the back of the seat. Once I’d settled in, I swallowed hard and glanced at my only true friend besides my mom.
“How was she?” Empathy filled her tone.
I blinked away my tears as I reached for the drink the bartender set in front of me with a wink. A sip to buy me time, and I rolled my lips together to stave off the breakdown that hovered.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she consoled as she reached out to rub soothing circles on my back.
After a deep but shaky breath, I turned to face her. “She’s dying.”
Saying the words for the first time was like someone driving a dagger through my chest. The pain was debilitating. A single tear escaped, and comforting arms surrounded me as Niara held me close. I didn’t care less if we were drawing attention. I soaked in her strength.
Finally, I pushed myself back and took another sip of the pink drink that was my signature. Niara and I had started drinking them after binge-watchingSex and the City.
“We need to talk,” I told her as I gave her a side-eye. Her spine immediately stiffened, and she cocked her head questioningly. “Not here.”
Her hazel gaze locked on mine as she searched my face for a hint of what I had to say. Then she grabbed her drink, downed it, setting the empty glass on the bar top. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine.”
“Drink up, sister,” she directed as she raised her hand, signaling the bartender to close out her tab.
Bottoming up my glass, I left a tip, and we exited the warm confines of the bar and into the brisk March evening. It was already getting dark, but I barely noticed. Arm in arm, we walked down to the sidewalk and to my car. I knew she walked over from the shop, so I drove.
“How bad is it?” she asked as we left the Bishop Arts area and drove up West Davis Street to head to my home in Winnetka Heights. My home was literally five minutes away.
“Depends on how you look at it,” I muttered.
There was no need to look at her to know she had her brow cocked as she waited for me to explain. For a moment, I mulled over how to explain everything. Finally, I simply blurted, “I have a brother.”
Silence.
“Excuse me? I really thought you said you had a brother when I know you’re an only child. I can only assume he comes from the sperm donor. Which tells me he could possibly be an absolutely vile human. Am I right?”
“Yeah, my thoughts too.”
The rest of the short ride was made in silence, much like it started. The darkness of evening fell as I turned on Montclair Avenue. By the time I shut off my car in the driveway of our early 1900s home, the starless sky was as black as my hair.
Niara followed me inside as I flipped on lights and dumped my purse, keys, and jacket on the hall stand. Ignoring the holiday decorating touches that were all my mom, I moved through the still house until I hit the airy kitchen. She decorated for every single holiday because it made her happy. She said it made the world festive, and it didn’t matter if our beliefs completely mirrored those of the modern world for their holidays. Without a word, I grabbed a bottle of red wine from the small wine fridge my mom had bought me for my birthday last year.
Stretching, I plucked two glasses from the top shelf of the cupboard and set them on the quartz counter. Still silent, I made quick work of the cork, let the bottle air, then poured us each a hefty serving. Handing one to her, I took a sip of mine.
“Come on,” I announced before I braced myself to enter my mother’s room. I climbed the stairs from the kitchen side as if I was heading to the gallows.
Most people might’ve sneered at my choice to live with my mother as a grown woman, but I wasn’t kidding when I said she was not only my mom, but also my best friend in the world. Niara was a very close second, but my mom was always number one. The thought of her no longer being in my life had me stumbling as I opened her door.