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Everything you could ever want is neatly arranged around the town square in the branching spokes of a wheel, just a few blocks away from wherever you happen to be.
Only, those few blocks feel like a fifty-mile death march by the time I reach the medical center.
Miles of people staring at me as they pop in and out of their cars and shops and houses to start the day.
That annoying double take as they realize I’m not Ros—no, it’s theothersister.
The older one who ran.
The one who never got over what happened to her big brother.
Sure, a few people smile and beam me greetings, or wave and call out,“Welcome home!”But every glance, every hello, every startledwelcomecarries a weight like an elephant.
The weight of skepticism, surprise, curiosity.
The weight of avid greed, strangers asking for more of the scandal that’s so personal to me, no matter how I try to run from it.
The weight of pity.
Oh, that poor girl.
All these years thinking her brother was a murderer when he’s just been dead all along with the Graves girl. Guess he really did love her after all.
They’re wrong.
I never thought Ethan was a murderer. The very idea was so ridiculous it made me gag.
I’ve always known there was more to the story than anyone dared guess. But I can’t think about that right now.
Not when I’m standing outside my mother’s hospital room, looking in through the observation window at her and wondering when the woman who raised me became so small under the sheets.
So old.
It’s not like I haven’t seen her regularly.
I always fly her out for holidays, random visits, a few times a year just for brunches and long weekends before she headed back home. But the slow march of years crept up unnoticed until it’s like she’s aged thirty years since I last saw her.
The last time was in my Florida condo, sitting serenely in front of the big sunny windows and looking out over the ocean with a small smile. Her beautiful face was aging gracefully with wisdom and peace.
Just last week, she was on the phone with me, talking about how happy she is that I’m coming home, and her voice was so bright I could easily imagine her strong.
But I see the grim truth in front of me now.
I see the quiet battle Mom fought so hard, the ravages of a pain she hid weathered on her face.
She’s a sunken husk.
Her face is greyer, paler, more spotted than I ever remember.
Her cheeks are nearly concave.
Her skin is so thin it’s like desiccated silk.
Like she’s already part cadaver, her bones trying to poke through her skin, her hair brittle and showing her scalp past bristles of wiry dull yellow that used to be a warm honey gold.
Frankly, it scares me.
I wouldn’t even think she was breathing if not for the dim fog on her oxygen mask.
