My mother’s cancer had been in remission for two years when I received the call that it was back. Not from her or my father, but from my eldest brother, Deacon. I’d booked the first flight home.

Spring in rural Massachusetts is achingly beautiful, like walking through a Monet painting. Flowers spill from new buds. Huge oaks, maples, and coniferous pines shade the streets. The air is still crisp, the sky a sedate blue. Soft winds whisper through leaves, swirl through the woods. These are the facts I fixate on when memory of that week rears up.

I spent hours upon hours walking the family property on trails narrowed by time. More hours at the botanical gardens in town. Every minute I spent at my mother’s bedside was matched by time outdoors—it was the only antidote to my constant need to scream.

One evening, I didn’t come home until after dark. When I walked upstairs to visit my mother and bring her a handful of her favorite mints, the light was off in her room. Not wanting to disturb the little sleep she managed to get, I went back downstairs with the intent of fixing a meal.

My path took me past my father’s study. His light was still on, spilling through the partially open door. I lifted my hand to knock, but froze before making contact. His voice, low and urgent, traveled to my ears, with intermittent pauses indicating a phone call.

“I know, I miss you too. Trust me, it’s just as hard for me… I can’t do that. Please don’t ask me to… She’s dying, for God’s sake. Think of the children…”

I counted my breaths in the silence.

Four inhales.

Five exhales.

Then: “I do, Abigail, of course I do. We’ll speak tomorrow. Yes, I promise.”

Into the ensuing silence came the sound of my father’s harsh breathing, then my mother’s whispered name. My hand, still poised to knock, fell slowly to my side.

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the wood. After a time, there were different noises. Gasping and choking. I heard again my mother’s name. A broken plea from my father as he wept.

Can the heart break and harden at once?

With the question in my mind, I walked quietly, numbly away.

* * *

When I next wake, it’s to soft voices from the kitchen. Sebastian and Vera. I should be able to decipher their words, but all I hear is my mother’s whispered name. Over and over, spilling with reverence from my father’s lips even as he betrayed her.

Eventually the memory loosens its hold on my mind, and I drop my feet off the side of the bed. I sit for a few more minutes, feeling disassociated and vague. My eyes are dry and gritty, my head pounding out punishment for last night. And my chest feels oddly pressurized, like my rib cage has shrunk and is squeezing my heart.

I make it to standing and down the hallway to the kitchen. My walk of shame isn’t pretty, with intermittent stops to combat the dizzies.

When I round the corner, I stop again and lean on the wall. I can’t seem to get enough air. My vision shines oddly around the edges.

Vera sees me first, her expression slackening with shock. “Candace! Are you all right?”

I’m aware of my fingers scratching and scrambling against my chest only dimly, like the action belongs to someone else. My skin crawls and breaks out in a wash of cold sweat. And my heart is no longer pounding, but fluttering high in my throat like a trapped animal.

I gasp, “I can’t… breathe.”

Sebastian’s body looms before me, the edges of him wavering. “Candace? Candace!”

“Bast,” I croak, reaching for him.

I hear his voice from far away: “Call 911, now!”

Then nothing.

* * *

The staff of UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica is nice. Soooo nice that they insist I stay hours longer than I need to for observation. I’m cynical enough to think it has more to do with my father being a benefactor than any concern for my health.

Picking at the IV taped to my hand, I tell Sebastian for the tenth time to leave.

“I’m not leaving,” he snaps.

Behind him, the door to my private room—thanks, Dad—opens. Vera enters with a cup of orange juice. She sits carefully on the edge of the bed and hands it to me, angling the straw toward my mouth.

At my annoyed expression, she sighs. “You can’t have any coffee, Candace. Doctor’s orders.”

Ignoring the orange juice, I flop back on the bed. My eyes veer to Sebastian, who’s sitting in a padded chair near the window, sunlight haloing his dark hair. I do my best puppy impression and his brows lift, lips twitching.

“Cute, but no.”

“But I’m dying for coffee!”

He gives in and smiles. “You are the worst patient I’ve ever seen. Since you woke up in the ambulance until now, you’ve been an absolute terror to all the people trying to help you.”

Shame wiggles through me and I stuff it down. “I had a little… episode. There’s been a lot going on. I’m overwhelmed. Blah blah. I have shit to do!”

Sitting forward, he says softly, “You had a severe panic attack. Your blood pressure was through the roof, you were shaking uncontrollably, and you passed out. Tell me how that translates to a little anything.” When I just stare blankly at him, he adds, “Has that ever happened before?”

“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. His eyes narrow. “Look, Bast, I get that you have a big brother complex with me, but seriously, just go. It’s bad enough that you called Alex and he’s driving up here.”

“Candace,” hisses Vera, “you’re being rude.”

“Rude?” I echo loudly, and point at Sebastian. “Maybe if he’d respected my boundaries, backed off when I asked him to, and left me alone, I wouldn’t have had a fucking panic attack!”

The door swishes open and a nurse rushes into the room, beelining for my monitors. “Ms. Hughes, are you all right? Your heart rate is elevated.” She tries to feel my forehead with her wrist and I bat her arm away.

“Get off me!” I snarl, lurching to the side.

Vera scrambles out of the way; I ignore her shocked expression, all of my rage condensing in a molten haze on the man now standing before the windows.

“Get out!” I scream at him. “Get away from me! I don’t need you, Sebastian. I don’t want you! Leave—Me—Alone!”

Two more nurses, both male, run into the room. My arms are dragged ungently to my sides. I holler nonsensically at them, bucking and writhing on the bed, and don’t feel my IV rip out or see the blood spray across the white sheets.

Above me, the nurses fire medical-speak at each other. A syringe appears and I fight harder.

“No! Don’t you dare sedate me!”

But they don’t listen to my belligerent demands. They don’t know that deep inside me, on a level no medicine can reach, something fundamental is broken. Has been broken for years. And that the one person who might have been able to fix it is dead and gone.

* * *

When I open my eyes, the windows are dark. Soft light diffuses from above the bed, falling on the bowed head of my brother.

“Alex,” I whisper.

His head whips up, the anguish in his eyes transitioning to relief. “Thank God.”

He takes my cold hand between his warm ones, gaze restlessly scanning my face. Looking for wounds he can’t see. Can’t fix.

“Tell me what to do, Candace.”

I squeeze his fingers. “I’m okay,” I say, then snort. “That’s not actually true, is it?”

“No,” he says without humor. “I had to pull a lot of strings not to have you put on a seventy-two-hour psych hold.”

Grimacing, I let my head fall back. I lick my lips and swallow a few times, but my mouth still tastes like sandpaper.

“Can I have some water?”

Alex grabs a cup from a nearby tray and holds the straw to my mouth. I suck hard, groaning at the blessed coolness on my throat, until air crackles.

“Thank you,” I sigh, relaxing again.

“Candace, tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

I huff in silent humor. “Nothing. My boyfriend is cheating on me. Big whoop. There’s women who don’t have food for their children or a place to sleep. I have nothing to complain about.”

“Stop it,” he says, albeit gently. “You think you’re not allowed to have feelings, to be overwhelmed or stressed out because you have money? That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” I grumble.

He’s silent for several long moments. “You’ve been running yourself ragged for years.” Another pause. “Is this about Mom?”

I answer honestly. “I don’t know.”

“Did you ever see a therapist, like we talked about?”

I close my eyes. “You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh, bro?”

He sighs. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but if you haven’t processed the grief yet, maybe talking to someone—”

“Stop,” I interject weakly. I look at him, taking in his handsome, weary face, his worried eyes. “I grieved Mom, Alex. This is… something else. Growing up, maybe. Or I just need a damn vacation.”

“What you need is to go home.”

My eyes narrow. “You’ve been talking to Sebastian.”

He frowns. “What? Why would I talk to Sebastian about this?”

“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head.

Alex drags his free hand through his hair. “You need to relax. For the first time in your life. Maybe take up painting again. You loved it, remember? You and Mom used to spend hours in her studio.”

I blink hard against a sting in my eyes. “I don’t…” I trail off, biting my lip.

Alex continues mutedly, “All of us—we’ve torn through life with our heads down. Fucking battering rams. Always with something to prove. Deacon with his resorts, Charles with his hotels, me with restaurants—”

“And what have I done, Alex?” I ask scathingly. “Plan parties.”

He squeezes my fingers hard. “Don’t do that. You’ve raised millions, Candace. Millions for causes you believe in. You’ve changed people’s lives in a way that’s more meaningful and profound than any of us.”

The tears spill over, rolling down my temples into my hair. “I’m so tired, Alex.”

“I know. That’s why it’s time to go home.”

Home.

“Okay,” I whisper.