And Gage. Wonderful, obnoxious, full of himself Gage. So alive, so larger than life. Gone. How is it even possible?
Jacob. He must be hurting as much as I am. I want to talk to him. I want to make sure he's okay. But I can't even help myself.
I lie there for a long time, watching the clock advance in slow motion, listening to my breath and feeling Michael’s arms around me. He stirs, moves to get up. He brushes his hand against my cheek. “You seem okay now. The chills are gone. I’ll let you rest.”
I reach for him, suddenly terrified at the idea of being alone in the dark horribleness of this reality. “Please. Don’t go.”
He slides his arms back around me, and I lean my head against his chest. He kisses my forehead. “I’ll stay. Go to sleep. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
Michael is gone when I wake up. I can’t believe I slept so long. The clock says almost noon. I move around testing my body. I’m not burning up or freezing anymore. The aches, at least the physical ones, are gone. I'm weak. My stomach—disconnected and emotionless—rumbles, reminding me I've barely eaten for two days. The rest of my body has no appetite for anything.
I slide off the edge of my bed, stand and make my way slowly down the hall.
The mirror in the bathroom shows a face I don’t recognize. I’m pale, with dark circles under my eyes. My hair is half-wild, clinging to the side of my face.
On the way back to my room, I stop at Tyler’s door. It's shut tight, but I need to see him. There’s no answer to my soft knock, so I push it open. My brother is lying on his bed, his arms wrapped around his knees, his back to the door.
I take a step inside. “Ty?” He doesn’t answer. I walk into his bedroom and sit down beside him on the bed. I touch his back. “Tyler, it's Jess.”
For a minute he stays still, then slowly he rolls over to face me. He looks just as haggard as the rest of us. “They said you were really sick.That I needed to stay away so I wouldn’t get sick too. I was worried that...” His eyes slide away from my face, losing focus.
“I’m okay.” I leave my hand on his shoulder. “What about you?” He shakes his head. “You haven’t left this room since Tuesday night?” He doesn’t answer. He won’t even look at me. On his dresser is a plate of breakfast, untouched. I stroke his hair. “Have you eaten anything? You need to eat. You need to...”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do.” The anger in his voice surprises me. “Don’t tell me I need to keep my strength up. Don’t tell me what Matt would want me to do. Don’t tell me that everything will be okay because it won’t. Not ever again. Matt is gone, blown to pieces. He’s never coming home.” His shoulders shake with sobs.
I wrap my arms around my baby brother, taller than me now. I hold him while he cries. I don’t cry. As big as the hole is in my chest, as sharp as the anguish of watching my almost-grown brother reduced to body-wrenching sobs, I can’t cry. I can only hold him as tight as I can, hoping I can hold the pieces together.
thirty
Connections
I'm absentmindedly sorting through a pile of sympathy cards. Not reading the sentiments or the names, just transferring the pile from one place to another, anything to keep my hands busy. One stops me—a plain, steel-gray envelope. The handwriting looks familiar, and there's no return address. My hands shake as I slide my finger under the flap and open it.
It's a flowered card, blank inside except for four words.
You're in my thoughts.
I stare at it for a long moment. It could be a harmless sympathy card. We've gotten them from all over the country. It could be from a stranger who saw what happened on the news and decided to reach out. I know it isn't.
I rip the card in half and push it to the bottom of the garbage can. No one notices but Michael. There's a question in his eyes I can't answer.
"Jess." Mom's voice pulls me out of my trance. She's holding the phone, her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Jasmine. She keeps calling. She sounds desperate.”
Jasmine always sounds desperate. Right now, her desperation feels like it’s intruding on my family’s grief. The drama queen in her can't stand not being part of this. I don't want to talk to her, but I can't make Mom deal with her either, so I take the phone.
“Jess,” she sounds breathless. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe this.”
“Thanks.” I don't even try to keep my voice from sounding cold. I’m tired of talking, tired of everyone reminding me how horrible this is. I was better off when I was too sick to talk to anyone.
“When is the memorial service?” Jasmine asks.
“We’re leaving tomorrow for the one on base in Texas. The funeral will be here next Thursday.” Details I’ve heard repeated a hundred times.
“Have you talked to Gage’s family?” Her voice breaks when she says his name.
“Mom talked to Trina twice.” This is where she makes this her pain too. She and Gage barely had anything. It’s heartless, I know, but I don’t have the energy to include Jasmine in the scope of my grief. Seeing Kendra last night—not talking, not crying, just twisting her ring—completely shattered. I can’t deal with Jasmine feeling like she has a share in this too.
“How are they doing?”
