What would I do without her? How would I move forward and face this mountain alone?
I pray I never find out.
The rest of dinner eases into small comforts now that the truth is out in the open. I spend most of the rest of the evening asking Mom questions about her diagnosis and putting up a hopeful front, making sure to reassure her that she is, in fact, going to be okay.
Rachel handles bedtime for the boys while I help Dad with the dishes, and Mom takes a moment to rest, running a quick hand through my long hair like she did when I was young.
Only when Rachel and I are alone, the boys breathing steadily in their sleep in the two cribs next to our bed, do I allow myself to fall apart in her arms and cry.
Chapter 21
Rachel
Everyone else seems to be having fun while I’m stewing in my despair. That’s the thought that keeps circling in my mind as I watch the family spread out across the frozen expanse.
I’ve been wandering aimlessly, but I need to keep my mind occupied. My boots crunch against the snow-dusted ice as I make my way toward where Aisha is setting up one of the smaller fishing huts. She gives me a tentative smile as I approach.
“Need help?” I ask, honestly happy for any task that will keep my hands busy and distract me from my mess of a mind.
“Sure,” she says, then adds hesitantly, “Actually, can I tell you something?”
I nod, then help her secure one of the hut’s corners against the wind. The fabric snaps in the cold breeze.
“When I was little, maybe six or seven, Karan used to read to me whenever our families got together.” Her voice is soft, almost lost in the wind. “He’d do all these different voices for the characters, though sometimes he’d start coughing from grating his throat a bit too much. He never quit in the middle of a story though, no matter how bad it got.”
The image hits me hard—a younger Karan, all long limbs and messy hair, stuck in a coughing fit yet determined to finish a story for his little cousin. It’s so perfectly him. That dedication is one of the things I love most about him.
But why is she telling me this? Where is this coming from?
Reality crashes into me once again as a glimpse of last year trickles into my brain. That same dedication drove him to ignore my pleas for him to rest last year when his flu developed into pneumonia. He’d rather work through a life-threatening illness than let down his boss.
The same dedication that I love so much from him has been slowly killing our marriage.
“He’s always been like that,” I say, surprised by the thickness in my throat. “Never knowing when to stop.”
“Yeah.” Aisha meets my eyes. “But I just feel like you used to be the one who could make him pause. Take a breath.”
Before I can respond, let alone fully digest what she’s telling me, Corey’s voice rings out across the ice. “Mommy! I think I got something!”
I start moving before I can think about it. My maternal instinct takes the wheel in moments like these. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Karan heading our way too, but I reach Corey first.
Unfortunately for my excited son, it’s only a snag. The line caught on something beneath the ice. I can feel Karan hovering behind me as I help Corey free it, my shoulders tensing at his proximity.
Our son’s excitement dims as he glances between us, and guilt twists in my stomach. The boys have been picking up on the tension. Of course they have. They’re five years old. It’s that weird age between early childhood and full lucidity.
They’re awake enough to understand and communicate, and still completely unjaded, still untainted by some of the harsh realities of the world.
It makes them so intuitive.
I straighten up and avoid Karan’s gaze, then move away to work on my own line. The wind is picking up, carrying snippets of conversation across the ice. Aisha is telling some story that has Martine and Anjali laughing, while Surinder and Suresh debate the best spots to make the next few holes.
A beautiful day, by any other metric than my own.
The fishing line tangles in my hands. I yank at it in frustration, but it only makes it worse. Someone—I think it’s Anjali—offers help, but I wave them off. I don’t need help. I don’t need anyone to see how badly I’m failing at even this simple task.
The thought of failure ambushes me, sending a tremor through my hands that makes the tangled line worse. Tears threaten to escape from my eyes. Ridiculous. I’m not going to cry over a stupid fishing line.
I blink hard against the cold wind.
