“What else would you do?” Again, his silence holds a weighted pause, as if he doesn’t consider his words, they might be held against him in some capacity. I would never. His family are fucking assholes, granted. Except for Nic, Fraze, and the kids. But family is blood. How can you distance yourself from your own kin?
“I’d trade currency on a laptop. Moored somewhere where the water is so clear, you can see the bottom for meters, not feet. Where the weather warms my bare skin and there’s enough wind to luff the sails.” Is he recalling our time on the yacht?
“I’m glad you offered Trystan a job. Sounds like he needed it.”
“Yes and no,” he begins. “He needed it, and he hated that he needed it. Needed me. He can’t access his trust fund because there are all these stipulations. Dozens of them. It was always going to be a win for the house, no matter what its cards were. He was screwed before the river card was even turned. Trys was supposed tobe a certain way. Fuck—all of us are, I suppose. We carry the weight of family lines and legacies. Certain curated expectations. He needed to get out of jail, and perhaps I had a key.”
“Are you sure that Cait's specialist is the best person to treat her? Mason and I were discussing her treatment the other day, and he mentioned Moorfields Eye Hospital in London. He spent time at boarding school in the United Kingdom and remembers the building while being driven.”
“Sabrina, are you having some kind of moment?”
“No, Mom, I?—”
“United Kingdom? We live outside Trenton, in case that thought slipped your mind. Are you hungover, lass? Your brain doesn’t seem connected to your mouth today.”
My brain is connected. In fact, it’s whirring through the probability of Cait seeing a renowned specialist in London. While her doctor seems to have all the correct qualifications, the jellyfish aren’t budging, and she’s endured three rounds of injections into her eyeball since. Still in great spirits, she sent me a photo of a poem she wrote for English. She was so proud of her B+. So was I until I zoomed in and read it.
No more rainy days, or Milky Ways.
No more sunrise sky kissed pink and gold.
No Netflix shows, or complete rainbows,
Or vintage photographs, yellowed and old.
There is no more room from the jellyfishbloom,
Their brownish tentacles are all I can see,
A new alphabet to touch, a dog or a cane,
Is what the future holds for me.
You could have knocked me over with a muffled sneeze. First of all, B plus? B fucking plus for a kid pouring her fucking heart out through prose? She may appear stoic and unperturbed on the surface, but under those outer layers, she’s shit scared of going blind. No more rainy days or milky ways, or Netflix shows. How the fuck does life go on when hers, for all intents and purposes, is crawling to an end? I think I’d rather be deaf than blind. And I’d rather be dead than both. Fuck those fucking jellyfish and their stupid tentacles. Fuck it all.
“With my next bonus, I could probably get flights to London.”
“Brina, stop. Oh, that is so darling. I got you a little sunflower like that from South Dakota.”
I follow her inclined chin toward a woman with a baby in a pram, so the baby must still be tiny. The woman is paying for clothes at the register where Mom and I are also lined up with most of the Northeast readying for Christmas. I take in her profile and will down the rising bile. Mom bounces on her feet, just itching to go over and see the baby dwarfed by blankets. The baby of the woman whose husband I had unwittingly formed a relationship with and given her my flower when she was all tear-stained and heartbroken next to my desk. Fu-ck!
“Let’s find another checkout. This line is too long.”
“There are two people in front of us. The line won’t be shorter anywhere else.”
“Mom, come on. Please.” I step out of line, met by her furrowed brow. Not now, not here. She looks set to join me, to fall into step so we can run away to a check out in anotherdepartment. Only the woman spots her dickhead husband and calls out to him. “Ben, Ben! We’re here.”
Mom stops moving like a petulant toddler about to throw a tantrum. Ben strides over blissfully unaware, always so fucking unaware, and places his hand on the stroller handle, right on top of his fucking wife’s. Their gleaming gold bands look a gaudy yellow in these unflattering lights, and can those fucking carols take a rest for one goddamn minute?
“Ben?” she said, "Ben, as in…” Her tone may be hushed and hesitant, but her mind is completing equations quicker than a supercomputer.
“Yes, she said Ben,” I snapped, ready to dump the damn gifts next to the nearest mannequin. I don’t dare look back as I power stride past eager shoppers and staff arranging new displays. With my neck craned and head on a swivel, I locate another register across the other side of the store. We take our place in the line behind the four other shoppers because,of course,this line is longer!
“Anything you want to tell me, Brina?”
No, Mom, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to share any of it with you, and you are better off not knowing. “Bubble?”
“I didn’t know.” It comes out on a choked sob.
