Page 61 of Head Under Water

“I promise.”

She inhales an unsteady breath. “The truck is gone now? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, and I locked both doors and checked the windows.”

Mom is quiet for a beat. “Why are you at my house?”

I don’t have an answer for that. “It’s just…where I came.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“I’m okay,” I assure her. “It just scared me. I’m still half asleep. Any news on Margie yet?”

“The boys are in with her again now. They came to give us another update around six. Basically, the surgery stopped the bleeding, but they’re saying the damage is pretty bad. A…subdural hematoma.” The words sound as strange on her tongue as they feel to my ears. “I’ve been trying to research, but it’s all so specific. They said something about her midline being off, or…or shifted…or something. Something with an eight. Or maybe her score was an eight. I don’t remember, honey. I’m sorry. I’m…I…” She sniffles. “She’s fully on a ventilator now, but they said once the swelling goes down, they’ll try to wake her up. They just keep saying the next forty-eight hours are critical.”

She’s trying to sound strong, but there’s a heavy sadness in her words. She’s already buried one of her friends, her sisters. I can hear it in her voice—she can’t do it again. “They still won’t let me in to see her. Immediate family only. But the boys say she looks okay. Considering. They shaved a patch of her head, though. She’ll hate that.”

Her voice cracks with the dry joke, and she’s crying now, and I wish more than anything I could be there with her. Could hold her hand. I never should’ve left.

“I’m going to get dressed, and I’ll be on my way,” I tell her softly. “What can I bring you guys?”

“No. No. Don’t come. We’re… I already told the boys we should go home for a bit. They’re visiting with her this morning, and then they agreed to leave with me. We need to eat, shower, change. I’m hoping we can all get some sleep. The doctors say they’re just going to let her rest and recover on the ventilator today, so it’s a good time. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll cook something for you guys, then,” I tell her, doing the mental math in my head to decide what I might manage not to ruin. “How’s… How are they?”

“As good as can be expected.” She sniffles again. There’s a pause. “Food would be nice, honey. We’re all starving. I think this hospital is hoping to make people sick with the food they’re offering.”

My lips curl with a soft smile. “I love you, Mom.” I feel like I need to say that now more than ever. “See you soon.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

PRESENT DAY

It’s after four before they arrive, and I have the table lined with bowls of food. I went overboard, clearly, but I needed something to do with my hands as the time ticked by.

It’s nothing extravagant—chicken salad, mashed potatoes, macaroni, spaghetti. It doesn’t even go together, I’m realizing as they come into the house. I was just cooking the things I’m good at. Or, at least, the foolproof foods I trusted myself to make. Things I couldn’t screw up.

I feel useless here, hands tucked behind my back as I watch Cory, Mom, and Will walk into the house. Cory drops onto the couch. Mom pats my shoulder with a sad smile before she makes her way down the hall to the bathroom.

It’s only Will who stops in front of me.

I don’t know what to say. What to ask. How to comfort him. I don’t even know if he wants me to.

“I’m so sorry, Will.”

Tears glisten in his eyes, but he looks away with a sniffle, and when he turns back, they’re gone. He swallows hard, jaw tightening like he’s physically forcing them back. His gaze falls to the table, then slowly returns to me. “You cooked.”

It’s not a question, but I nod, tucking my lips together. “It’s not going to be very good. Not like yours.”

A corner of his lips tips up, still sad but trying. His voice is rough when he speaks, gravelly, like it might fall apart. “So you admit you love my food.”

Just this once, and only because I think he needs to hear it, I lean in, as if exchanging a secret. “I think it might be my favorite.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, but softer. More fragile.

He reaches forward and neither of us seems to know what he’s planning until his hand comes to rest on my shoulder. His fingers are warm but unsteady. His thumb draws a gentle line over my collarbone. I suck in a shaky breath. It’s as if I’m an anchor. As if he just needed to feel something solid to know he’s real.

He withdraws his hand before I’m ready, the loss of contact leaving me cold and empty. His fingers curl slowly, mouth opens, but he shuts it nearly as fast and folds his hand into a fist. His lips press together, leaving so much unsaid. With one final look, he moves down the hall and pushes open my old bedroom door, shutting it behind him.