Page 22 of Downfall

“Oh, Skylar, no. I was going to say ‘making my own way.’” There’s a shuffle on the other side of the line. “I wasn’t trapped with your father, honey. I just wasn’t happy. I saw a chance at a better life—one that I could carve out myself—and I took it. Anyway, we’ll figure it out. I don’t want you to worry.”

“How much?” I ask. Normally, I wouldn’t be so blunt, but this is life or death.

“Skylar.”

“How much, Mom?”

“I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t want his money.”

“So you’d rather have your husband die of liver failure?” It’s fucked up, I know, but she’s not making any sense. “Besides, the money's not his anymore. It's mine.” Or it will be. Maybe.

“Skylar, I told you, I don’t⁠—”

“Mom. Tell me how much.”

“Hundreds of thousands, Skylar, but there are financial assistance programs we can apply for and payment plans offered by the hospital. Besides, he may be on the list for months if he gets one at all. You know with his history, he won’t be the first on the list.”

The thought brings fresh pain to my chest. I understand it. There are rules, considerations, ethics. It’s complicated, but it doesn’t hurt any less. They don’t put former alcoholics at the top of organ donation lists.

“You’re giving up?” I hate the tinge of misplaced anger in my voice.

“I know you don’t mean that, honey,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry, Mom, but I’ll be twenty-five in a little over a month. Do you think he could hold on until then?”

“Skylar, I don’t think you’re hearing me.”

“Just answer the question, Mom.”

“Yes. He’s stable for now. His doctors are optimistic that he can make it through a few more months.”

“Okay.”

She protests again. I’m not sure if she knows about the marriage stipulation, but she doesn’t mention it if she does. She’s torn. This is the love of her life. Granted, she met him in the middle of it as opposed to the ripe age of fifteen like me, but it doesn’t matter. He’s the other half of her soul. How could I not protect that for her when I have the power to do so?

Long after I’ve ended the call with a promise to talk to her in the morning, changed into my favorite oversized T-shirt, and let the tears spill freely down my face, it finally dawns on me. I don’t think I fully wrapped my head around every detail. It was fight or flight, and I fought with all I had. Now, in the quiet of late evening, my mind is catching up with what I need to do to make this happen.

It’s only six weeks. I turn twenty-five in April. I won’t even have to speak to him except, of course, to ask him to commit fraud with me. Except it’s not really fraud. We got married before I even knew about the terms of the trust.

When it becomes clear that any more thought about this tonight will only lead to spiraling, I pad into the living room dead-set on losing myself in reality television for the next few hours. But the second I wrap myself in my favorite blanket, there’s a knock at the door. I wait for the sound of a truck driving off, thinking maybe it’s a package being delivered late. That’s not uncommon.

But after a few seconds, the knocking returns, louder, more urgent, along with my name being called by a voice I know all too well.

It only haunted my memories for years.

10

DECLAN

“Skylar, I know you’re in there. Open the door.”

I rap on the wooden frame with my fist again. Finally, I hear shuffling on the other side and the sound of a lock disengaging. The door opens a crack, warmth and light spilling out into the frozen night. I can see a sliver of her auburn hair and the green flecks in her eyes through the slit, but not much else.

“What are you doing here?” She doesn’t sound mad, more surprised than anything.

“Can I come in?”

She opens the door a tiny bit more, allowing me to see that she’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt that comes down to the middle of her thighs. The same one I picked out for her when I walked her home the other night. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, a few strands framing her face.