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“Hey, I’m good,” Soren says—at the same time I agree, “Too bad.”
“Well you’re both good, but not devoted,” my mom clarifies.
“There are other things to do,” I tell her.
“I’ll stick to piano,” Soren says.
He goes to his room to read comics after the show, but I stay out on the couch with Mom. She likes falling asleep in the blue light of the TV and then walking to her bedroom half asleep—something I like to give her shit for. She wraps an afghan around her shoulders and looks like a zombie walking down the hall.
Tonight, she nods off, but she doesn’t get up for a long time. I look at her for a few minutes as she sleeps, taking in her short, brown-gray hair, the grooves in her face, the lines around her lips from smoking cigarettes when I was little. I think of the pictures of her at my age—mostly arm in arm with Dad, her head tipped back as she laughed at something he said. My dad used to be funny…or so I’m told. I’ve told Elise some sentimental shit about how he used to be a good guy before his problems started, but the truth is I don’t remember any of that.
Mom’s really out. I wait a while longer, and when she doesn’t get up to zombie stagger to her room, I go to mine, leaving the door cracked so I can listen out for trouble. I lie on my back and look up at the light fixture, a brass thing from the ’80s that’s hanging crooked, like it’s thinking about falling.
Then I close my eyes and think of her.* * *Elise“Are you sure about this?” he asks.
I squeeze his hand. “I’m so sure. They’re at a thing in Westport, and they’re staying the night.” I don’t mention that they have a weekend flat there. Luca’s always such a good sport, but sometimes I think he feels self-conscious about the difference in our family’s incomes. Things like that couldn’t be less relevant to me, so it’s better to avoid the topic.
He looks up at the elevator’s mirrored ceiling, and I use my hip to bump his. Then I bump him more and more, laughing as I pin him in the corner, where I wrap myself around him like an octopus.
And then he’s laughing with me. That’s my favorite part of any good day—hearing his low, slightly hoarse laugh. He always sounds a little rusty, like it’s been a hundred years since he laughed. But when I look up at his face, his smile is radiant and satisfied, and I know he’s really happy.
“Trust me on this,” I say again, as the elevator jolts to a gentle stop on floor twenty. “Maura is my favorite nurse. She’s been with Bec for almost six years. I told her you were going to come by, and she swore not to tell my parents.” We step off the elevator, and I grip his hand as we walk down the sleek, echoey hall.
“There are cameras—like security—but they’re for the staff quarters and the living areas. We’ll go in the family door and meet Bec in the laundry room. Don’t worry, it has a couch. And then we’ll go up to the rooftop garden and part ways, and on Monday, I’ll be free from being grounded. We can sneak around while I pretend to be with my friends. It will be the best thing ever.”
I press my pointer finger into the keypad by the family door, and it clicks open. I glance up, and Luca’s smiling—that good, satisfied, amused smile that’s one of my faves. I nudge the door open with my fingers, and we walk through together.
“Here we are. Home not-so-sweet home,” I mutter, making a face.
I watch as his gaze sweeps the foyer, with its glossy hardwood, thick crown molding, crystal chandelier, and marble-topped antique table.
“It’s great.”
“Mm. Let’s go this way.” I drag him down the hallway, past one of the things I do like in the house—a haunting Alyssa Monks painting—and then I open the door to the laundry room and come grin-to-grin with Maura.
“Hello there.” She steps closer to my sister’s wheelchair, wrapping her hand around the handle bar as she nods at Luca.
For a split second, my stomach does a hard roll as two worlds collide. What if Luca can’t see Bec the way I—
And then my sister laughs.
Her face is lit up in a way I haven’t seen in months, and she’s just…laughing. It’s such a shock that Maura starts to laugh, and then Luca is laughing. He’s crouching by her chair, and I’m trying to smile as tears of shock fill my eyes.
“Becca, this is Luca.” She’s grinning so hugely that I know she knows exactly who he is. My sister isn’t mentally disabled. She has a rare disorder that’s been ravaging her body for the last few years—it causes seizures and destroys her muscles—and some of the medicines she’s taking make her a little out of it at times. But she knows what “my boyfriend” means.
