She leans over me. “I’m sorry, Jess, for you, for your family.”
She leaves. Michael gets up. Nichole is standing over me with medicine and a glass of water. I take the pills and then lie back down. They’re talking in the hall outside my door.
Nichole comes back in and sits on the side of my bed. “I packed for you. Extra everything. A couple of dresses for…the service. I’ll be coming…when you know the details.” She squeezes my hand and turns away so I don’t see her tears.
Michael comes back in. “Are you ready?”
Ready? I’m in my pajamas. My hair is crazy, wild and wet with sweat. I should get up and get dressed. I should at least comb my hair—stupid things to think about now.
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He picks me up, blanket and all, and carries me out of my apartment, down the stairs, to Jacob’s car. I remember Jacob telling me not to let any other guys drive his car. There isn’t anything I can do about that now.
Michael slides me into the back seat. There are pillows and blankets piled in the back. “Are you comfortable?”
My whole body is hot and achy. My heart is hollow. The seat is too short for me to stretch out on. Comfortable isn’t possible. I nod anyway.
He climbs behind the wheel. I close my eyes. The effort of being carried to the car has left me exhausted. I drift in and out of consciousness, in and out of reality.
My cell phone rings. I open my eyes. It’s on the seat next to Michael. He reaches over and picks it up. “Hello…yes…Michael Stephens.” He’s talking quietly. “Oh… hi. Yeah. I’m sorry, very sorry to hear about your brother.”
I strain my ears to hear. Tyler?
“I’m taking her home. She’s sick…the flu…she’s asleep in the backseat. No, don’t worry, I’ll take care of her…Sure, I’ll tell her you called. Again, I’m sorry about your brother. He was a good man… I’ll tell her you said that…You’re welcome, Ricks.”
Jacob! An involuntary moan escapes my lips as Michael snaps the phone shut. He doesn’t hear me. “Jacob.” I whisper his name. All I can think about now is how he must be hurting. How much I need to talk to him.
Michael keeps driving. His eyes on the road. He must not hear me.
twenty-eight
Anything and Nothing
I’m lying on my bed. My own bed in my own house. Vague memories come crowding in—a car ride, Michael carrying me in the house. Two soldiers standing on our porch. My parents talking in low voices. Mom’s face, pale, her eyes rimmed in red.
Tyler. Where was Tyler?
I focus on the form lying on my floor. Mom? Her arms are wrapped around a pillow and a blanket is lying in a heap next to her. Her breathing is even, but her face looks haggard. What is she doing here? Why is she asleep on my bedroom floor?
I adjust my position. The noise wakes her. She sits up and rubs her eyes, kneels beside my bed, and touches my forehead. “Jessica, baby, you’re still so hot. How do you feel?”
How do I feel? The irony of what she said is laughable, or it would be, if everything wasn’t so horrible. “Mom.” I try to sit up, and mypulse hammers in my ears. “Why are you here? Did you sleep on the floor? You need to rest.”
She stands up slowly and sits on the chair beside my desk. “I need to be a mom right now. I can’t do anything for... for Matt.” Her face twists, and she turns away.
“What about Dad and Tyler?”
“Dad slept in Tyler’s room last night. He hasn’t come out since we told him. You looked so sick when Michael brought you in. I needed to be with you to make sure you're okay.” Her voice is halting, as if every word takes an effort. She needs to sleep. She needs to get away from me. I can’t make her sick. Maybe Karen was right. My being here is making everything worse.
There’s a soft knock at the door. Michael comes in. He has two glasses in his hands, with some kind of brown liquid. “I brought you guys some protein drinks, something to keep your strength up.”
Mom takes hers. “Thank you, Michael. And thank you for bringing Jess home.”
He walks over and sits on the edge of my bed. “How are you doing?” Dumb question. He touches my cheek. “You still have a fever. Have you taken anything?”
I shake my head. I wish everyone would stop fussing over me. It makes me feel guilty for insisting that I come home. Mom looks like she’s aged a hundred years. Somebody should take care of her.
“Drink this,” Michael coaxes. “You need liquids.” He’s holding the glass like he’s going to press it to my lips and hold it for me while I drink. I take it out of his hands before he can.
I stare at the brown liquid. I can’t imagine anything less appealing. Mom is swirling hers around in the glass. Michael is watching me. Mom is watching me. I take a tentative drink. It’s chalky, completely tasteless, and it hurts my throat on the way down. I take anotherswallow and then set it down on my nightstand. Mom gives up on hers too and sets it on my desk.
