I’m also smiling to myself when I take another photo, this time of my naked feet on the wooden floor beneath me.
Is the message I attach to the photo.
I get exactly what I expect in response, a vomiting emoji and a scathing response.
Another vomiting emoji.
I debate about what I want to do next, but I feel like Maeve is a big girl and can handle it. I send her a kissing emoji, and then add.
I don’t expect a reply. I really don’t. I am moving to find my bag when I feel my device vibrate and a reply come in. Much to my surprise, it’s a photo. There’s Maeve, looking perfectly made up with her long flowing blonde hair tucked over one shoulder, a smart suit jacket on over what looks like a tight black tank top and jeans, and she’s sitting at a table on high bar stools. And she’s not alone. Next to her is a young and beautiful Black woman with a beaming smile and thick twists in her hair, and while she’s dressed more casually than Maeve, her face also has make-up on it. Their heads are touching as they smile at the camera, glasses of wine in their hands.
I don’t reply. I like the photo and close the app. And still I smile. I keep on fucking smiling as I pack my bag, put on socks and shoes and finally, an hour later than I should, leave my cabin, and head to the gym.
*****
When I get back from the gym two and a half hours later, I park my car in the driveway and let myself into the main house. My mom’s car is gone and I know from a message she sent earlier that she came home for a change of clothes and a quick sleep in the early hours of the morning following the birth of a healthy baby, but that she’s now returned to the family to help them adjust to their new addition. I look forward to her updates and hopefully some photos later.
Once inside, I’m instantly aware of how quiet the house is. Normally, at this time of day, my sister would be awake and the TV would be on in the lounge or some music would be coming from her room. She might even be in the kitchen where she would be baking some diabetes-friendly sweet treats that my mother and I would devour at the end of the day.
But there’s no TV on, and the kitchen is tellingly empty and clean. I look in the fridge to see if the overnight oatmeal I made her is still there, and my stomach lurches when I see it still in its jar on the shelf.
“Shit,” I say to myself.
I wash my hands, thoroughly but quickly. I grab the oatmeal and a spoon, and I pour my sister a glass of orange juice. I had planned to make myself a coffee and grab a banana, berries and yogurt, but this is more important.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I’m upstairs and knocking on my sister’s door in no time, balancing the juice and oatmeal precariously with one arm. When no answer comes, I gently open the door and let some of the light from the corridor fill the room. As I expect, Jessica’s still in bed, her pajamas on, and she’s rolled over on one side, her back to me.
Shit, she needs to get up and do her physio.
I put the oatmeal and juice down on the top of a tall sideboard on my left and I walk to Jessica’s bed which is on the opposite wall, pushed into the corner. It’s a queen size bed and it only makes Jessica’s petite form seem smaller and more fragile when she barely takes up a third of the space.
“Jessica,” I say gently but with enough volume to wake her. Sitting down on the bed, I hope the movement jolts her awake, and for a second I think it’s worked as she starts to roll over. But then I see her face and realize she was awake all along.
“Jess—” I begin, but can’t even finish her name. I can only stare at her face.
“Did I say you could come in?” She sniffs. Her eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are wet with tears.
“I knocked…”
“And I didn’t respond. That normally means you aren’t invited to come in.” I find my ears pricking up as she speaks. She sounds a little breathless, like she always does. I am eager to assess if it sounds worse than normal.
“I’m sorry. I got worried. It’s nearly lunchtime and you haven’t had your oatmeal or done your morning physio.”
“Jesus.” She shifts in bed, and I can tell she’s readying herself to push up to sitting. I itch to help her, to lift her myself, but I don’t. I know how much she hates that. “I’ll get to it, okay? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
“What’s your CGM saying?” I ask and watch carefully as she reaches for her phone and opens the app.
“Fine. Yes, I need to eat something,” she says before tossing her phone to one side. She sniffs and I see then her eyes are red and puffy.
“But you… you’ve been crying.”
