As if my panic is written in Sharpie across my forehead, Iris reaches for my hand. “It’ll only be for a few months at most. With Dad gone, I’ll be extra busy at work, and without Mom here to watch her…” Iris drifts off, her eyes filling with tears. She runs her fingers under her lashes to clear them. “I have Ella on a waitlist for preschool, but they can’t guarantee her a spot until after Christmas. I will interview babysitters if I need to, but I would really rather her be with family, especially after everything that’s happened.”
Woah, woah, woah. Did she say a fewmonths?
Iris gives my hand a squeeze. “You’re the only one of us with extra free time and a flexible schedule. With your job, you can work from anywhere.”
She says “job” like photography is a cute little hobby I play around with while frolicking in fields of wildflowers. While I have taken plenty of photos in fields of wildflowers, I paid for my apartment with that “hobby.”
And what the hell does she mean by extra free time? I wish. I have hundreds of photos to edit from the shoot I did with an aspiring actress a few weeks back. It’s not a matter of simply “slapping on a filter,” as Alex loves to say. Thinking about the emails piling up in my inbox gives me heart palpitations. If I did this, I’d need to reschedule all my upcoming shoots, which would let down a lot of people. But my sisters don’t see that as an inconvenience because “I can work from anywhere.”
There’s no question that I love my niece. She’s probably my favorite person in the world right now. And it really sucks that Mom is gone and can’t watch her anymore. But pressing pause on my whole life for a babysitting job? That’s too much to ask.
“Iris, I don’t know if I can swing it.”
Her smile falters. “It’ll only be from eight until four, Monday through Thursday. Justin’s schedule is crazy, but he’s always off on Fridays, and I’m off on weekends.”
If I’m watching Ella four days a week, when am I supposed to get my own shit done?
Damn, that sounds selfish. Good thing I didn’t say it out loud.
Guilt washes over me like an icy tide. Living so far away means I haven’t helped much through the years. Would it really be so bad to hang around until Christmas? The holidays are going to be extra hard without Mom and Dad here. Don’t I owe it to my sisters to be there for them since our parents can’t?
Iris sits forward and rests her hand on my leg. “Feel free to say no. But Ella loves yousomuch, and I know this would make the transition easier on her.”
How the hell am I supposed to say no to that?
For the millionth time, I curse that fucking truck driver who took away our parents. My family clearly needs me, so I’ll have to figure something out for my own stuff.
“I’ll stay,” I decide. “But only until after Christmas.”
My spinelessness earns me a hug from all three of them.
What the hell did I just do?
* * *
My sisters insiston watching home movies after brunch, but there’s no way in hell I want a part of that, so I escape upstairs to the guest room where I usually stay when I’m here. My old room waits right down the hall, and though I’ve avoided it until now, something makes me walk right past the guest suite to my door, and…wow.
When Mom said she hadn’t touched the place, she meant it. My old movie posters are still taped to the wall, the edges curled and the colors faded. The blue bedspread with the matching pillows is the same one I remember. The room isn’t dusty, so the cleaners must come in here. Other than the lack of dirty clothes strewn across the carpet, the place looks the same as it did the day I left.
I sink onto the mattress, but before I can flop down, my eyes catch on a thick black book left on my nightstand.
Not a book.
A photo album of pictures I took back in high school. Bonfire nights. Football games. Shots of my entire family at our cabin down by the springs.
So much for not crying today.
I flip through a few more pages until I come across a picture of a strawberry-blonde girl with a hundred and four freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. I know because I’d counted them all.
My hands begin to tremble.
The album lands on the carpet with a thud.
Why did I think it was a good idea to come in here? I’m such a fucking idiot.
I stalk out of the room and slam the door. The family portraits on the wall rattle, but none of them fall. Trying to breathe through the choking panic doesn’t do a fucking thing. What else had my therapist suggested? My brain feels like it’s melting and I can’t think straight. Maybe a cold drink will help.
My legs wobble as I hurry back down the stairs and into the kitchen to pour a glass of filtered water from the fridge.
