by Marie Meyer
I shake my head. “Not for the type of cancer Mom has.” Rolling onto my back, I look up at her. “She’s terminal, Ren. They can’t help her anymore.”
Her face falls. “Cayden…”
I close my eyes. Her sadness, along with my own, is heavier than gravity at the moment, and it’s crushing me. “I can’t do it. I can’t watch her die.”
Ren puts her hand against my forehead, stroking back over my hair. “I am so sorry.”
My body weighs a million tons. Sleep…I need sleep. “When she’s gone. I won’t have…anyone.” When I wake up, will this nightmare be over? “You’re lucky,” I mutter, slipping beneath the weight of sorrow and bone-tiredness, “having a brother, a sibling. You’re not alone. You have a family.”
“You’re not al—”
I think I hear Ren’s voice, soft and angelic, floating somewhere above the amber sea I’m drowning in, but it can’t be. I’m alone and lost in the dark.
* * *
A ray of light filters between the slats of the blinds and shoots me in the eye, sending a fireball of pain through my optical nerve and incinerating my brain. Fuck. I press my eyes closed against the burning light and stretch my legs out.
Umm…what the hell?
My feet push into legs. Warm, smooth, legs. Cracking open an eye, I wince and lift my head. Ren? What is she doing here?
Pushing up on the couch, I peel the other eye open and suck in a breath through closed teeth, my head ready to explode. I scoot my ass to the edge of the couch cushion and rest my elbows on my knees, cradling my head.
Breathe, Sinclair. In and out. Nice and slow. What the hell did I do last night?
My body is a live grenade, any sudden movements, and I will explode.
The blankets beside me stir and the cushion sinks as Ren sits up. “How you feeling?” she asks groggily. I appreciate her thoughtful whisper, but the state I’m in, she may as well have shouted into a bullhorn pressed right against my ear.
I give an almost nonexistent shake of my head and attempt to speak, “Not…good.” My voice is gravel, wrapped in sandpaper, covered in Tabasco.
“What can I get you?”
Drunk off my ass last night. Massively hungover this morning, and she’s still here. She didn’t leave. I do not deserve this girl.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just give me a minute.” Massaging my temples, I try to piece together the events of last night. The empty bottle of bourbon explains why my head feels like the Super Bowl game ball. The last time I polished off a bottle of bourbon was when I found out my dad passed away. It wasn’t one of my finer moments and sure as hell had been asshat stupid. Had my CO found out about my bender…dear God. At least this time, I wasn’t on duty.
Ren stands and walks toward the kitchen, disappearing around the corner. She opens the freezer. Ice clatters into a glass, followed by rushing water. My stomach churns, anticipating the unwelcomed invasion of hydrogen and oxygen molecules. Although it would be good for me to down a glass of water—alcohol is coming out of my pores—I can’t stomach it at the moment.
Ren comes back into the room with the offending glass. “You need to drink this.” She holds the ice water out to me.
I lift my head, slowly, so I can look her in the eye. “Baby, thank you.” Please know I mean it. “But I can’t.”
Gently, she sits beside me, careful not to rock the cushion. “I know you feel like jackal vomit right now, but you really need to drink something other than fermented corn. Nurse’s orders.”
I strain, turning my head to look at her. “Jackal vomit? That’s a first.”
“Jackal vomit is the worst. Trust me. I worked at the zoo in high school, jackals are disgusting creatures.”
Even hungover, she manages to make me laugh. “Can you assure this water will make me feel less like jackal vomit?” I take the glass from her hand.
“Maybe an upgrade to a kitty fur ball. Only slightly better.” She confirms with a nod.
“And that’s a professional diagnosis?”
She pouts her lips and gives me the stink-eye. “Are you questioning my mad nursing skills, Officer?”
“Never, sweetheart. I’ve seen them in action.” Putting my lips to the edge of the glass, I tip a swallow of water back. The cool liquid flows over my thick, dry tongue, washing down my irritated throat. Fuck. Was that bourbon laced with fire?
Setting the glass on the coffee table, I mumble out a choked, “Thank you,” and fall back on the couch, closing my eyes as I wait for the room to stop impersonating the Disney World teacup ride. “Remind me to never consume bourbon again.”
“I’ll do my best,” she says, patting my leg.
“By the way, you look stunning.” That black dress hadn’t escaped my attention. I make a mental note to lose myself in Ren from now on; the aftereffects are far more enjoyable, and she can make me forget better than any goddamn liquor. Ren is the perfect distraction to the bigger issue…Mom’s dying and there’s fuck all I can do about it.
Her wavy hair is pointing in a zillion directions; she tries to tame it, running her fingers through the snarls. I wish I’d put them there another way. God, sex with her is so fucking amazing, I can’t stop thinking about it. She makes me horny all the time.
“What’s the plan for today?” she asks, unaware of my current train of thought. “I took the day off, thinking you might need help with your mom.”
Opening my eyes, I sit up, staring at her, drinking her in…my hangover cure. She is goddamn perfect.
“I don’t think any newborns will mind me being Katy Sinclair’s nurse today,” she says, smiling faintly.
“I really want to kiss you right now, but in my current state, that’s probably not the wisest course of action.” I twist my body around. Despite the agony of my screaming head, I need to touch her. Resting my hand against her cheek. “Thank you.”
“I’ll take a rain check.” She taps my nose with her finger. “Why don’t you jump in the shower.” She waves her hands around, referencing my horrid drunken mess. “I’ll attempt breakfast—don’t hold out for anything fancy, I usually burn water—and we’ll spend the rest of the day with your mom.”
Yep, she’s an angel.
“What did I do to deserve you?” I say this out loud, but I’m really speaking to myself. Truly, how did such an amazing woman come into my life just when I needed her? And the best part is, I didn’t know I needed her. Vin was right, the most important things always come into your life when it’s least convenient.
I lost Dad…and now I’m going to lose Mom. It’s nice to have someone on the path beside me now, to share the happy moments, and help carry the burden of the sad ones. My internal compass, my heart, points to Ren, the best treasure I’ve ever found.
“Can I show you something?” I hold out my hand to her, needing her strength to help me stand.
Laying her palm in mine, she moves, pulling me up gently. “Sure. Lead the way.”
Down the hall of my little ranch, the second bedroom on the right is where I keep my collection of compasses. After getting lost in the woods when I was nine, Dad gave me my first one for my tenth birthday, not too long after the incident. Ever since then, my fascination with them hasn’t wavered. In fifteen years, my collection has grown to over two hundred. Some large, some small, brass, wood, gold, liquid, marine, prismatic, I don’t discriminate when it comes to a compass; they all hold a unique beauty—and safety. It’s the same as having someone you care about at your side.
Our entwined hands swinging like a pendulum, we enter my compass room. I’ve never shown anyone this display. It’s private, something I only shared with my dad. When I came home from Afghanistan, I couldn’t bear for any of these to be buried in boxes…like Dad. I needed to bring them out, free them…set him free.
I flip the light switch and watch Ren’s already large eyes widen even more. The floor-to-ceiling lighted display cases I built flicker to life, spotlights shining down on the navigation tools.
&
nbsp; “Cayden,” she says, exhaling. “This is breathtaking.” Letting go of my hand, she tiptoes around the room, examining the contents of the cases.
“My dad and I put together most of the collection.” I glance around. So many memories. “He always said, ‘Cayden, with this tool, you’ll always know your way home, where you belong.’”
Peering into a case, she glances over her shoulder. “They’re gorgeous.”
Stepping up behind her, I set my hands at her waist, my mouth at her ear. “Not as gorgeous as you.”
Ren turns, our bodies press together. Her dark chocolate eyes capture me like magnetic north holds the needle of every one of the compasses in this room. “I have so many tools to help me find my way home,” I say, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “The funny thing is, I didn’t know I was lost, until you found me.”
For a second, I see a hint of her frightened bird response, then it flutters away. “Technically, you found me. Speeding down the road.” She lifts her brow.
“My cheesy lines are rubbing off on you, sweetheart.”
She cringes. “God help me.” Running her finger down the scar at my temple, her eyes soften. “Why do I get the feeling your scar has something to do with why your dad gave you your first compass? I remember the picture on the wall of your mom’s staircase. That night, you wouldn’t let your mom talk about what happened.”
I clench my teeth, hating the story and the scar that is a constant reminder of that night.
I nod. “I’ve always had this overwhelming desire to please my dad. Even now that he’s gone, I still fear disappointing him.” I keep a strong hold on Ren, drawing strength from her.
“When I was nine, Dad took me on an overnight camping trip. I was such a shit as a kid, always getting in trouble. You’ve heard the stories.” She nods in affirmation.
“I looked up to my dad. He was a big guy, never afraid of anything. I wanted to be tough, just like him. To prove how manly a nine-year-old I was, I took off into the woods, determined to bring back dinner—a squirrel, rabbit, some fish, anything I could kill, and show my dad I was a big, strong outdoorsman, just like him.
“It got dark. I couldn’t find my way back to our campsite. But I refused to give up—Dad wouldn’t have given up. I kept moving. The terrain became treacherous and that’s when I tripped and fell. My head met the side of a fallen tree, a branch slicing up the side of my temple.”
Ren touches my scar with a tender finger.
“I can still feel the pain, white-hot and blinding. And the thing about head wounds? They bleed a lot. I crumbled in a bloody heap on the dirty ground. That’s the last thing I remember, until I woke up in the hospital. The first person I saw was my dad. He had tears in his eyes that spilled over and ran down his cheeks. That was also the only time I ever saw him cry. My stupidity made the strongest man I know cry.”
“Cayden,” she consoles. “I’m sure those were tears of joy. That you were okay.”
I shake my head. “Dad told me how scared he’d been. First, that it took him so long to find me, and then because I was injured and unconscious. He thought he was going to lose me.”
“I’m sure he was scared to death. But, in my experience, fear is what keeps us going. So we don’t give up. It’s the way out of a nightmare, it sets us on the path toward home, safety. That fear of losing you is what kept him searching, kept him praying that you would be okay,” she says.
“I hated being the cause of his pain. This scar is a reminder that I broke him that day.” My throat constricts and tightens. Nausea flares, the sour bourbon in my stomach rearing its ugly head.
Ren cradles my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her. “Cayden, I don’t know your dad, but I’m certain you didn’t break him.” Her voice is soothing, like a warm summer breeze. I can almost believe her words.
“I made a promise to myself, and to Dad, that I would never let him down. Never be the cause of his tears and disappointment. Lately, it seems that’s all I’m capable of…disappointment.”
Ren caresses her thumb over the lines of tension at the corner of my eye. “Cayden Sinclair, what are you talking about?”
“I can’t save Mom. I didn’t get the SWAT position. Everything I came home for, everything I told my dad I would protect and work for, gone.”
“Your mom is lucky to have such an amazing son. She knows that and so did your father. Sometimes saving someone is as simple as just holding them. Letting them know they’re not alone. And what do you mean, you didn’t get the SWAT position?”
Shaking my head, I run a hand over my thumping head. “Not enough time with the force to be eligible.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want to see your disappointment in me.”
“In life, there are going to be disappointments. The world’s an ugly place. I’ve lived in that ugly place. But, it’s places like this”—she latches her hands behind my neck and puts our foreheads together—“safe in the arms of someone you care about that make the ugly places a little less scary. There’s no disappointment here. You are an incredible man, Cayden Sinclair.” She puts her hand over my heart. “Go easy on yourself.”
I breathe her words, absorb them into every cell of my body, and for the first in my life, I don’t feel lost. The needle of my soul stops spinning and points a direct line to her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ren
Who knew “terminal” was synonymous with “fast”? Within a week of finding out she was terminal, today Cayden is moving his mom from her home of twenty-eight years into a hospice care facility.
Cayden texted right before my shift ended, asking me to swing by his mom’s house and pick up her Bible. On my way to the house, silent tears work their way down my cheek. I haven’t known Katy long, but I still feel the hurt, the consuming grief, and double-edged sadness like a scalpel slicing through my guts. One look at Cayden’s face when I show up at the hospice facility is all it will take; I’ll be carved, hallowed out. So, so empty.
The Sinclair family home is dark, already mourning Katy’s absence. Cancer’s shadow is wide and all consuming. Pulling into the driveway, gravel crunches beneath my tires, quieting as the car rolls to a stop. Getting out, I slam the door shut, the clang echoing into the night.
Cayden shared with me the location of the hide-a-key, safely stowed under an extra landscaping brick behind an overgrown bush in the front yard. Upending the brick, I pluck the key from the dirt and skirt around to the front door, letting myself inside.
Being here without Cayden is so strange. I switch on the foyer light as another tear slides down my cheek. The walls…the tables…happy family memories stacked up feet high. A tsunami ready to pummel anyone who opens the door.
I run up the stairs, eager to get Katy’s Bible and be on my way. I know Cayden is putting up a strong front for his mom, giving her someone to lean on, someone to carry her through this ordeal. But right now, Cayden has no one. I need to be there for him. He’s Superman to so many people, it’s time for him to come down and let me carry him.
Mrs. Sinclair’s room is just the way I remember it, tidy and carefully decorated with more family snapshots. It’s interesting to see what people collect, what holds meaning and value in their lives. Me, I collect birds, my brother collects music. Mom loves her cookbooks, Dad, anything football related, and Cayden has his collection of compasses. Katy collects memories. She reminds me of old Rose in Titanic, unpacking all of her picture frames when she arrives on the deep-sea vessel. I smile at the thought. A lifetime of wonderful treasures.
Snap out of it, Ren, get the Bible and get to Cayden.
I shake my head and step over to the nightstand, where Cayden said his mother keeps her Bible. Sure enough, there it is, lying right on top. I pull it out and shut the drawer. It’s old and falling apart, the pages stuffed with so many loose papers and pictures.
Standing, I open the flap to my purse, ready to drop the Bible inside, just as a photo a
nd a piece of yellowed paper drift to the floor. Bending over, I retrieve the articles. The snapshot is of Cayden, his parents, Blake and his mom and dad, and two black labs. The boys don’t look more than twelve or thirteen. Blake has Cayden in a headlock, giving him a noogie and the parents are suspended in eternal laughter.
A smile pulls at my lips. Pushing the photo back between the pages, I flip the folded yellowed paper around, an elegant cursive script on the front: Baby Two and Baby Three.
Mrs. Sinclair had suffered two miscarriages after having Cayden. Whatever this paper is, it’s meant for those two babies.
A morbid curiosity to unfold the paper and read grabs hold of me, but I resist. The contents of this Bible are Mrs. Sinclair’s deepest, most cherished thoughts and memories…her soul. I couldn’t invade her privacy like that.
Another tear slips down my cheek and I press the paper back between the pages of the gospel.
I get it. On her deathbed, she wants all of her family.
* * *
“Cayden?” I push open the door to Mrs. Sinclair’s room, keeping my voice hushed. “Cayden?”
Stepping inside, Cayden comes around the corner, greeting me at the door with a kiss. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Relief drips from his words.
“Sorry it took so long. I’ve got her Bible.” I hold up the battered book.
He takes it from my hands. “Thanks.”
“How is she?”
“Sleeping. She sleeps a lot.”
In my profession, death comes with the territory, albeit, I see life more often, but I have seen death, too. When the body begins to slow, periods of inactivity and excessive sleep are normal. Metabolism begins to shut down, dehydration sets in, it’s all part of the process of dying.
I take Cayden’s hand, squeezing hard, letting him know he’s not going through this alone. “Keep talking to her,” I say, knowing that even those who are in comas or close to death, experts believe they can still hear. The familiar sound of a loved one is comforting. “She can hear you.”