Because of how her so-called friends treated her at the funeral, Brooke hid at home afterward. She stayed in her room, she lost a lot of weight, and the few times she ate I heard her throwing up. Her pallor terrified me and she had dizzy spells that confined her to bed. She consumed my attention and I knew I was letting Freya down because she was grieving too, but it wasn’t the same, having the boy you coveted die, to going through what Brooke had to.
It has been two months to the day since Eli died and naïvely I didn’t think things could get any worse.
They have.
I’m sitting in the reading nook with Brooke, the first time I’ve coaxed her out of her room in days. I made blueberry and choc-chip pancakes, a weird combination but one she’s loved since she was little. She’s barely taken a mouthful, but she stares at her plate like it holds the answers to her pain.
“Try to eat some more, sweetheart.” I rest my arm across her shoulders, shocked by the boniness beneath her tattered T-shirt.
“I’m not hungry,” she murmurs, before shrugging off my arm and placing the plate on a nearby side table.
“You have to eat—”
“Why? So it’ll make me feel better?” She spits the words out, as if they’re as unpalatable as food these days.
I hate seeing her in so much pain. “I know you’re hurting, but give it some time, you may feel better—”
“I’m pregnant,” she says, her voice cracking, her hands shaking as she covers her face. “Time won’t fix that.”
I gape, curses whirring through my head, before I close my mouth and try to think of what to say in a situation like this. Brooke looks like a walking skeleton. Dark circles rim her lifeless eyes and she’s exceptionally pale. My poor baby is in no fit state to bring a child into this world.
“Are you sure?”
She gnaws her bottom lip and nods. “Eli and I had a scare once before and I bought a few tests back then. I just took one and it confirmed it.”
I’m reeling. How can Brooke bring Eli’s child into this world while she’s still shattered over his death? But this has to be her choice. She’s been through enough without having me impose my will on her too, so I lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “What do you want to do?”
This time she doesn’t shrug it off and after a few moments, she lowers her hands so I can see her face.
“I need to have it.”
Need, not want, and it, not the baby. If her emotionless tone doesn’t alert me to her ambivalence her words are a giveaway.
“But I can’t keep it,” she adds, vehemence in her declaration.
I’m confused. Why would she want to carry to term only to give her baby away?
“I can’t end a life, not after Eli, but I can’t keep the baby either because it would be a constant reminder…” A lone tear trickles down her cheek before she raises her tortured gaze to mine, beseeching me to understand. “Will you help me?”
“Of course, sweetheart, anything you want.”
I need to think, to come up with a way for all of us to move forward. It won’t be easy but I want to do what’s best for my family. I’ve never believed in that old cliché “love conquers all” because it doesn’t; I’m living proof of that. Brooke needs a chance to put the recent horrors behind her and if giving up her baby will help her do that, I’m all for it.
But then I think of Eli and how both girls loved him. A baby that’s a part of him would be so special…
I’ll make the arrangements for adoption but deep down I hope Brooke will change her mind when she gives birth.
Sixty-Three
Brooke
Freya doesn’t mention the broken photo frame and when I ask her about it, she’s embarrassed and shrugs it off, so I don’t push it. She’s pinned the photo to the fridge with a magnet as if trying to appease me. It does, in a way. I like seeing that photo; it reminds me of why I’ve come home and the bond we’ve re-established is important to me.
But because I’m unsure if Freya broke my gift deliberately or not, I don’t tell her what I’m doing today. I’m tiptoeing around her, avoiding yet another awkward confrontation. If we get the answers regarding Aunt Alice’s care that I’m hoping for today, I’ll tell her then.
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Lizzie is nervous, her thumbnail chewed to the quick, a habit I thought she’d conquered as a kid. “This feels wrong.”
“Freya’s done a great job with Aunt Alice but it can’t hurt to get a second opinion.” I glance in the rearview mirror where our aunt is currently napping. “You saw how much more animated Alice was outside at the bridal shower, and the reminiscence therapy is definitely working.”
“Yeah, but not taking her medication can have major ramifications…” Lizzie shakes her head and lifts her other thumb to her mouth.
“It’s one day and she’ll be under the care of one of the eminent dementia doctors in the country.” I reach across the console and pat her arm. “It’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.” Lizzie lowers her hand and clasps it with the other, turning her head away to stare out the window.
I hope so too, because I’d never put Aunt Alice in jeopardy deliberately. But Freya isn’t giving me answers regarding Alice’s care—she’d even fobbed me off when I’d asked for our aunt’s medical records—so she’s left me no option but to go over her head. I’ve deceived my sister, which doesn’t sit well with me, but if Aunt Alice gets the care she deserves it’ll be worth it.
For my plan to work, I had Lizzie insist she learn how to administer Aunt Alice’s medication and we’d fooled Freya into showing her. Lizzie told her Riker was planning a surprise weekend away after the wedding as a quickie honeymoon and Lizzie had to know what to give Alice. Freya had been reluctant—she’ s a control freak when it comes to our aunt’s care—but had agreed.
Freya gave Lizzie a duplicate key to the medicine cabinet and agreed to let Lizzie administer this morning’s dose. She’d been adamant about supervising but a convenient phone call from Helena—I’d asked her to do me a favor, no questions asked, and she’d agreed in exchange for us to catch up for dinner one night soon—meant Freya had been busy while Lizzie gave Aunt Alice her meds.
Only she didn’t, and I now have a list of everything Aunt Alice is taking, and Dr. Hesham can assess her without the influence of meds while Freya is at work. I don’t like lying to Freya, but this is too important.
When I pull into the LA facility’s car park, I find a spot near the door. Lizzie’s tight-lipped after I park and kill the engine, but she gets out and fetches a wheelchair. I swivel in my seat and gently tap Aunt Alice’s leg.
“We’re here, Aunt Alice.”
Her eyes fly open and for a moment I’m startled by her manic stare, before a film clouds over. She doesn’t speak as she looks around and remains silent as we help her into the wheelchair, take her inside and wait for her appointment.
Dr. Hesham wants to assess her alone before reporting back to Lizzie and me, so when a nurse calls Alice Shomack I wheel her in, give the doctor a list of her meds and retreat to the waiting room. Lizzie has vanished in search of coffee and when she returns I take the cup she offers, chugging down the putrid brew because my mouth is dry.
“I’m not sure I want to hear how bad she really is,” Lizzie says, sipping at her coffee. “At least with Freya being the primary caregiver, I can pretend she’s not so bad.”
She raises stricken eyes to mine. “I still think of her as my mom.”
“I know.” I lean into her, slide my arm around her waist and hug her tight. She rests her head on my shoulder and we stay that way until the nurse comes out to call us in to see Dr. Hesham.
The nurse takes us past her office and into a large, bright room with various machines, a huge clock taking up most of one wall, and board games stacked within shelves of a monstrous bookcase. I’m sure we’re both holding our breath and as we step inside I’m not sure what to expect, but it isn’t Aunt Alice sitting at a table
, moving letters around on a word game, her brow furrowed in concentration but beaming like she once used to when she read my end of semester grades.
Dr. Hesham approaches us and holds out her hand to Lizzie. “Aileen Hesham, pleased to meet you.”
Lizzie shakes her hand. “Elizabeth Shomack, but everyone calls me Lizzie.”
The doctor nods and looks at me. “How are you, Brooke?”
“Fine, thanks.”
It’s a rote response because I’m far from fine. I want to know my aunt’s prognosis and what we can do to help.
“Please, take a seat.” The doctor gestures to three seats in the opposite corner of the room from Aunt Alice.
Once we’re seated, Dr. Hesham says, “It’s probably easier if I tell you what I found and you confine your questions for the end.”
Lizzie and I nod. I try to get a read on the doctor but her face is carefully blank. They probably taught her that in medical school, with the bad news she must have to deliver frequently.
“Firstly, your aunt is a delight. She submitted to all the tests I administered and didn’t appear aggressive in the slightest, which can be common with patients who come here for the first time. They become disoriented and scared.” She shoots a glance at Aunt Alice before refocusing on us. “I’ll email you the test results but I’ll summarize briefly. Yes, she’s exhibiting signs of early onset dementia, but she’s not as advanced as you led me to believe, Brooke.”
Heat flushes my cheeks, embarrassment making me practically squirm. I want to yell, “This isn’t my fault, I’m doing the best I can,” but that won’t endear me to the doctor.
“The thing is, I’ve taken a look at her medication and I don’t think she needs all of it.”
I shoot Lizzie a glance and her high eyebrows match mine.
“That said, I don’t observe her day to day. She may be anxious, depressed and hallucinating usually, and she happens to be having a good day.” A tiny groove dents her brows. “Why I asked you not to give her meds today was to observe what happens. While she still has a cocktail of drugs in her from what she’s taking daily, not taking meds at the usual time may exacerbate symptoms and that’s what I expected to see today.”
The groove deepens. “You mentioned your sister has been the primary caregiver for your aunt, is that right?”
I nod, wishing Freya were here so she could hear all this firsthand rather than Lizzie and me having to relay it to her, and I feel guilty all over again for resorting to subterfuge to obtain a second opinion.
“I’d like to talk to her and see if I can access your aunt’s previous medical records. In the meantime, I would suggest cutting back on some of the medications.”
The doctor hesitates, her astute gaze swinging between Lizzie and me, her intense scrutiny disconcerting. “Without seeing your aunt’s records I can’t give an accurate diagnosis, but I will say this. A lot of her symptoms can be caused by side effects of medication. I’ve seen it before, when a doctor not well versed in early onset dementia misdiagnoses without getting the full picture.”
I’m stunned. Aunt Alice’s symptoms could be due to her meds? Is Freya aware of this? Or is she so close to Aunt Alice she’s oblivious to changes in her condition?
“Brooke, are you all right?”
I blink and refocus to find Dr. Hesham studying me with one eyebrow arched.
“Yes, thanks, this is a little overwhelming, that’s all.”
Lizzie’s wearing the same shell-shocked expression I am but there’s something almost furtive in her gaze that I’ll explore later.
“Actually, I think you’ve made significant progress with your aunt’s care today,” the doctor says. “Bringing her in is the first step and I hope I’ll see Alice again soon. I’m fairly certain I can help.”
“Thanks,” I say in unison with Lizzie, and we give an awkward chuckle.
As the doctor heads over to Aunt Alice to say goodbye, Lizzie leans in close. “Do you think Freya’s aware of this?”
“I have no idea.”
But I intend to find out.
Sixty-Four
Alice
THEN
We move to LA where nobody knows us and rent a small apartment. I find a place for Brooke to stay. It’s an old mansion on the outskirts of the city where other pregnant teens are housed. She’s free to come and go as she pleases, as are all the girls, but as expected she retreats into herself. She doesn’t socialize with the other girls. She barely acknowledges me when I visit. She doesn’t ask how Lizzie’s doing at college and she rarely mentions Freya. It’s like leaving Martino Bay and all it represents for her has cleaved her memories in two: she wants to forget the past and is lackadaisical about the present.
I worry about her every day. I wish I could make this easier on her but I can’t. I try to distract her with the glossy magazines she used to love poring over with her friends, with the latest release by her favorite fantasy author. Nothing. She thanks me with a tight smile then turns to stare out the window, her preferred pastime these days. The larger she gets, the more introverted she is, until she’s barely saying a word by her due date.
I visit often but I forbid Freya. The last thing Brooke needs is to see her sister.
Like everything else in her well-ordered life—apart from this unplanned pregnancy—Brooke goes into labor on her due date. When I get the call I race to be by her side. My beautiful Brooke is stoic throughout the long twelve hours. She moves around, she has a shower, she rocks over a big blow-up ball and when she’s fully dilated she lies on the bed, ready to push on command.
I made her watch birthing videos with me but the guttural groans ripped from deep within her throat are nothing like the women we saw on the DVD. She’s a red, sweaty mess, making heart-rending noises, and I wish I could make this easier for her.
I hold her hand. I whisper comforting nonsense. And when the midwife asks her to pause as the baby crowns before giving an almighty push, I’m there.
But as Brooke falls back on the pillows, exhausted, there’s no sound and I see the nurse bundle the scrawny baby into a towel and shoot me a frightened look.
The baby is blue.
“Let me see my baby,” Brooke whispers, plaintive, but I shake my head and reach for the baby.
“It’s better this way, sweetheart. He’s at peace.”
With that, I whisk the baby away but not before I see Brooke’s face crumple, and try not to cry at the devastation in my niece’s eyes.
Sixty-Five
Alice
THEN
I comfort Brooke as much as I can. But it’s useless: all her favorite magazines and chocolates and soaps in the world won’t erase her loss and she just sits in an armchair by her hospital bed, staring out the window for hours at a time.
With her baby gone, Brooke would usually be discharged quicker than most but I speak with the nurses, who agree to give her extra time to grieve in the sanctity of the hospital. I encourage her to take walks with me and on the third day she agrees. We always turn right out of her room and I see the way she averts her tear-filled gaze from the sign that points left toward the nursery.
She doesn’t speak and my attempts at conversation usually fall flat after the first few tries, until I give up and settle for silence. But she’s uncomfortable when I’m around, like she wants to grieve in peace, so I only stay for a snatched hour here and there.
Brooke is discharged on the seventh day, a week after her world imploded. I want to point out to her that she’d planned on giving the baby up for adoption anyway, that she’d probably still be grieving for his loss if he’d lived. But I don’t, because what good can come of it?
She’s not coming home and I don’t blame her. Martino Bay holds nothing but haunting memories of Eli’s death and the misplaced responsibility she feels. Better she makes a fresh start far from ghosts of the past.
But as we stand at the entrance to the bus depot, I wish I could change everything. I wish I could take away this darling gir
l’s pain.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back, if ever,” she says, the dark smudges under her eyes almost violet, and stark against the pallor of her face. “I can’t go back…”
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” I bundle her into my arms and she stiffens, as if trying to hold herself together, before melting into my embrace for a brief moment.
She pulls away quickly and her bottom lip is wobbling. “What will Freya and Lizzie think—”
“Don’t worry about them. You need to focus on yourself.” I cup her cheek. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Brooke. You need time to heal, to recuperate. Be kind to yourself and if you ever need me, you know where to find me. In the meantime, there’s a thousand dollars in that envelope I gave you and I’ve set up a bank account in your name so you don’t have to worry about money, okay?”
“Thanks,” she says, jumping when a voice over a loudspeaker announces the next departures for Albuquerque, Las Vegas and San Francisco.
I don’t know where she’s going. I’d rather not know, because I’ll be tempted to visit and she doesn’t need that right now. A clean break is better. I know, because it’s what I did after I lost Cam and leaving Verdant, moving to Martino Bay, was the best thing I ever did. A fresh start to soften the pain of the past and fuel optimism for the future.
“I love you. Don’t ever forget that.” This time when I pull her in for a hug she sags against me, my coat muffling her sobs as I smooth her back, crying silent tears.
Our eyes are red and bleary when we pull apart and I manage a watery smile before I squeeze her hand one last time. She doesn’t return my smile and I don’t blame her. She’s on her own now and while it’s the best thing for her, she must be as terrified as I was embarking on my new life.
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