Nancy Thompson - Sisters

“No, not you.” My voice shakes. “You keep looking for a flight.”

Typing resumes, and an orderly walks by pushing a medicine cart. He’s the first person I’ve seen outside of the ICU. I’m tempted to ask him if he has a spare Xanax in his rolling pharmacy.

Skye throws up her hands. “Go your merry way and leave it all to me. You are undoubtedly the most selfish woman I’ve ever known.”

All I can think of as I watch her walk back to the elevator and push the call button is, No one knows you like a sister. Unless your sister doesn’t know you at all.

Mine’s obviously never known me if she thinks this is easy for me.

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “No one’s asking you to stay, Skye.”

She turns and blinks at me. “I will not leave Mama like this.”

“Yeah, well what about all those times Mama left us?”

“That was different. You know it was.”

I press my fingers to my forehead because my head feels as if it’s about to explode. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Stay here forever?”

The rep says, “I apologize, I’m working as fast as I can.”

Oh, God. “And you’re doing a great job,” I say. “I was talking to my sister.”

The elevator dings and Skye gets in. A wave of relief washes over me as the doors slide closed like a firewall between us.

“I have some alternatives for you,” he says. “There’s an eight-o’clock flight out of Orlando this evening or a seven-o’clock flight out of Tallahassee tomorrow morning.”

Those are my choices? I take a deep breath and try to conjure some charm, but it can’t cut through the mire of the panic attack that’s been building since Ginny awakened. “Nothing else? Isn’t there a smaller airport that’s closer?”

“No ma’am, these are the closest cities.”

“Considering it’ll take me four hours to drive to either Tallahassee or Orlando and only five hours to drive to Atlanta where I could hop on a direct flight, those don’t sound like very good options, do they? Besides, I’d have to rent a car—”

I clench my moist hand into a fist. My nails dig into my palm. Why am I telling him this?

“I do apologize, but that’s the best I can do.”

Well, it’s not good enough. God, a typical man.

“I can book you on the Monday flight or perhaps you’d like to try another airline?”

I take a deep breath and try to quell the panic that’s cresting inside me.

I lean against the wall. It isn’t his fault I’m stuck. He can’t manufacture a flight. I squeeze my eyes closed and let the anxiety flow, feeling I’m stuck in a tiny box with my mother and sister and Nick. I want to claw my way out. But I can’t. After spending six hundred dollars on my ticket to fly here, I’m not prepared to fork out more money on a rental car, much less buy a new ticket if another airline has a flight out of here. At almost three hundred dollars, the train isn’t an option either. I checked on it before I bought my plane ticket.

Yep, I’m stuck.

“Okay, switch me to Monday.”

Grasping for a coping mechanism one of the dozen or so shrinks I’ve seen over the past two decades equipped me with, I rationalize that it’s only four days, and I go outside for a smoke.

Four days.

And I’ll have the consolation of knocking Skye off her self-righteous pedestal. After all, I’m staying through Monday. She doesn’t need to know I can’t afford any other escape route.

Four days.

How much mental torture can Skye and Ginny inflict on me in that short amount of time?

Oh dear God, help me.

Skye

Downstairs in the hospital cafeteria, it smells like they’re cooking up something Italian. My stomach growls, but a quick glance at my watch shows it’s a little too early for dinner.

Mmm…smells like lasagna.

Or spaghetti with meat sauce.

I so wish I could be like those people who lose their appetites when they’re stressed. But, oh no, not me. I’m an all-occasion eater: Food is a celebration when I’m happy; comfort when I’m sad; sweet revenge when I’m mad; and just plain ol’ fun when I’m bored.

I can’t understand those odd creatures who can take or leave food. Summer, for instance. It’s probably because she smokes; they say nicotine dulls the taste buds. Now that I think about it, she’s always been a finicky eater, never been all that interested in food. Just like she’s never been all that interested in anything that doesn’t directly benefit her.

Such as staying and helping me take care of Mama until she’s on her feet.

I suppose stewing over Summer right now doesn’t serve any purpose. But sometimes she makes me so mad I could just boil over. I don’t know why I thought she’d change. Except that we are in the midst of a crisis with Mama’s condition—granted she’s improving, thank God in heaven—and it would be nice if for once she could think outside herself, put her selfishness on the shelf.

As I make my way through the serving line, the cakes, pies and puddings call to me. But I remind myself this is hospital-cafeteria food. It can’t be worth spending the calories on. Although that doesn’t stop me from hesitating in front of a piece of angel food cake topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

I glance over my shoulder at the door. Summer’s bound to join me any minute, after she finishes making her plans, and despite how tempting the cake looks, I’d rather go hungry than eat it in front of her. So I settle for pouring myself a cup of coffee, angry at myself for caring what she thinks.

As I’m about to hand my money to the young woman at the register, I say, “Is it too late to add something else?”

She smiles sweetly. “No, not at all.”

I grab a king-size pack of peanut M&M’s from the candy rack behind me. Yes, they should hit the spot.

Armed with coffee and candy, I make my way to a corner table to hide with my snack. There are only three people in addition to myself in the cafeteria—a man in scrubs hunched over a newspaper and an older couple. The woman looks weary, as if she hasn’t slept in days. The man with her is probably her husband. I wonder who she’s worried about. Her mother? Her child?

My heart tightens at the thought. Suddenly, I’m almost overwhelmed by how much I miss my three. No parent should ever go through the pain of losing a child.

I suppose, in a sense, Mama must feel as if she’s lost Jane. It makes me wonder which is worse: losing a child to the streets or death?

I know, because I was nineteen when Jane was born. Even though both Summer and I were out of the house, I shared Mama’s pain each time Jane ran away. I lived in constant fear that she was going to turn up dead.

I tear open the yellow candy wrapper and pop a red candy in my mouth. The sweet/salty goodness is pure comfort.

I had kids of my own the first time she left and, I don’t know, I guess something shifts in you once you give birth. A well of vulnerability opens and dredges up feelings you never knew you could have.

Maybe that’s the reason I can forgive Ginny for waking up asking for Jane. Summer doesn’t understand mother love.

I eat two more pieces of candy as I fish my phone out of my purse. My neighbor, Rose, should have the kids home by now, and I’m longing to hear their sweet angel voices.

I call but the line is busy. One of them must be online. Cameron and I have been slow to switch over to Internet that doesn’t run through the phone lines because we don’t want to give them carte blanche. With three of them between the ages of twelve and sixteen, they’d be on the phone and computer all the time. At least this way only one piece of technology can be in use at a time and they have to battle it out amongst themselves.