The second time was the moment we met my foster parents, who would eventually become my adoptive parents. After two years and some change of being bounced from foster house to foster house, suffering through terrible families and lonelyholidays, we were told there was an older couple who was willing to take us both in until permanent placement was found.
The social worker parked the car in front of a modest ranch-style house, and I took in the spacious side yard, the kiddy pool and slide already set up for us. My parents were waiting on the front stoop, and my dad lifted a hand to wave just like they do in the movies, and I knew, justknew, that this was it.
I knew we had found our forever home.
This moment marks the third time that I know what’s happening before the words are spoken. And I know if I answer that phone, I’ll hear news I’m not ready to hear. News that’s going to break me.
Jim, with the way that he can always read my thoughts, swipes to answer the phone as he ushers me to sit on the side of the bed.
“Dr. Charlebois.”
The voice on the other side starts, words muffled through the ringing in my ears. Jim’s eyes flick up to mine, and the pain I see in them causes my legs to give out.
My body goes limp as I slide off the edge of the bed and collapse to the floor. A cold sweat covers my entire body, and I wrap my arms around my stomach, curling into the fetal position.
Jim kneels next to me, working to pull my body into his lap the best he can, vigorously rubbing my back with his free hand. I try to listen to his words, to the questions he’s asking, but it’s useless.
My breaths come out in quick succession, the panting increasing with every passing second, the movements becoming painful as the pressure builds in my chest. I cover my head with my hands, curling into myself as my entire body quivers.
“Megan.” Jim’s muffled voice is close, trying to pull me from the depths of hell. “Megan,” he says again, this time alittle louder. “Megan, stay with me. Take a deep breath, baby. Breathe.”
“My sister…” I trail off, wheezing with each inhale, barely able to pull the much needed oxygen into my lungs.
Jim drops my now dark phone to the ground and wraps his arms around me. His lips are pressed against my ear, urging me to take a breath but I can’t focus. I’m standing on the outside, watching from across the room as each strangled sob leaves my throat.
Hot tears fall in streams down my face, and I bite my bottom lip so hard I taste metal, not wanting to believe that we’re here. The moment I’ve worried about for the last seventeen months has come.
“Marissa’s dead, isn’t she.” I pose it more as a statement than a question, but there is still that small, small part of me that hopes he’ll tell me I’m wrong.
He pulls me tighter into his embrace, his hand smoothing the now damp hair away from my face as he murmurs his next words. “I’m so sorry, baby. They did everything they could, but your sister’s gone.”’
Chapter Nineteen
Iscrape the last bits of baked cheese from the edge of my glass pan with my fingernail as I curse myself under my breath. Deciding to cook everything for today was a stupid fucking choice.
When faced with the responsibility of planning my sister’s funeral, I couldn’t imagine gathering everyone in a stuffy, proper church. I didn’t want to sit in the pew as we stared at blown up pictures of Marissa, the stench of rotting funeral flowers stinging our noses. That wasn’t Marissa.
My sister was a kaleidoscope of colors who saw the beauty in everything. She was open and carefree and loving. She saw the best in people and believed in second and third chances.
She was the exact opposite of me.
I wanted to make this day as special as possible. I wanted a final celebration of who she was, so I decided it needed to be hosted at our house. I spent hours dusting off her artwork and moving furniture around the living room to create space to show off her talents. Nearly every square inch has a canvas propped up against it; images of summer skies and wheat fields fill my home, and everywhere I turn I see her face.
I’ve spent the last two days preparing all of Marissa’s favorite foods and desserts. At the time, it felt like the right thing to do.
Now, as I stand at my kitchen sink, the belly of my sleek, black dress soaked with dish soap and dirty water, and a crusted casserole dish in my hands, I’m wishing I had catered instead. My thoughtful gesture now feels like a blatant act of stupidity.
My parents have been holding it together the best they can. I haven’t said much to them, because honestly, I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at comforting people, never have been. And it’s hard to find reassuring words when I’m on the verge of losing my fucking mind. My friends have called and texted like clockwork this week. Everyone asks how I’m doing, what I need, constantly reminding me that they are here for me.
I know all that, but it doesn’t help this burning in my chest. Lainey has sweetly tried to get me to talk about Marissa, to open up about my feelings and talk about the person she was. I give her credit for trying, but after her third attempt I snapped, telling her that if she wants to talk, she can go outside with the rest of the group.
The one person who was only slightly annoying over this last week was Jim. He didn’t call much, but he didn’t need to because if he wasn’t at work, he found any excuse to come over. The first time was to take Jackson outside and set up that stupid cat house. Then he said he wanted to check on the pipes under my sink to follow up on his handiwork. He texted once to tell me he’s bringing dinner over, no exceptions. I sat in complete silence, methodically chewing a piece of pizza, focusing on trying to swallow each bite while he chatted away with Jackson. He took him to the park for an hour one afternoon, which gave me the opportunity to sit on the floor of my shower, crying as loud as I wanted to without having to worry about Jackson hearing me.
The casserole dish slips out of my hand, falling into the sink and splashing a mess of dirty suds up my chest and neck. I closemy eyes, exhaling a shaky breath as I grip the edge of the sink.Keep it together, Meg.
I stand tall, exhaling through pursed lips as I reach for the dish again. When it slips out of my hands for a second time, I pull it from the water, raise it high above my head, letting the warm water drip down my wrists before I release it and send it sailing to the floor.
The second the corner hits the tile, a crack sounds and the dish breaks into tiny shards, scattering across the floor.
