10

WHY WAS I HAVING such a difficult time sleeping?

It wasn’t as if I’d had surgery. No, Jillian was the one recovering from a mastectomy. So why was I lying awake, tossing and turning, mentally begging my body to relax . . . and then dragging myself into work the next morning, exhausted and still half-asleep?

It had been a week since Jillian’s surgery, and this was turning out to be another sleepless night.

Retrieving my cell phone from my bedside table, I noticed a text from Johanna from ten o’clock. Two hours ago. How had I missed that?

The first week is behind us. Spent the day with Jillian. She says the pain is decreasing. Still limited to sponge baths until her drains are removed. Mom will stay with her starting next week.

Johanna’s texts had started within minutes of Jillian arriving in the recovery room with a Heard from the anesthesiologist that Jillian did well message and continued several times a day since then. I kept telling myself she meant well, that this was the simplest way to keep us all updated and included.

But for some reason I felt excluded. Unneeded. Harper and Johanna helped Jillian the first week after surgery, and then Mom would be with her. After that, Jillian planned to go back to work.

What was I complaining about —even if only to myself? Wasn’t I the one who always demanded distance?

This was what too little sleep did for me. I overthought my life —the life I’d worked so hard to attain. To perfect.

Of course, I could always call and check on Jillian if I wanted to. See if she needed anything.

But not at midnight.

I dragged myself out of bed, taking my comforter and pillow with me, and made my way through the darkened town house to the couch. Maybe a change of location would do the trick. If my mother were here, she’d recommend a glass of warm milk flavored with honey. But even though I was still awake, I didn’t have enough energy to make an updated version of my mother’s remedy using almond milk and maple syrup.

I tossed my phone to the end of the couch. Grabbed the remote and channel surfed until I found some inane Disney Channel rerun certain to put me to sleep. I snuggled beneath the comforter, punched my pillow into shape, and stared at the TV screen, muttering, “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep.”

The dock moved beneath my feet, my flip-flops sounding a dull thud against the weathered boards. I shaded my eyes against the sunlight streaming across the water that stretched out in front of me. The air carried the scent of salt. Of humidity. Of summer.

“I love this place.”

I stumbled to a halt, not noticing Pepper seated on the edge of the dock until she spoke. She wore a yellow tank top and a pair of cutoff jean shorts.

Pepper patted the space beside her, staring straight ahead, her bare feet dangling over the edge of the dock. “Sit down.”

I slipped off my flip-flops and sat beside my sister, our bare arms touching. “I haven’t been back here since —”

“Summer vacation when we were ten. I know. So many good memories, right?”

“From that summer, yes.”

“I never expected you to be such a cynic, Pay.”

“I grew up, Pepper.”

How odd to say that when I was sitting next to my sister in a dream, and she was still sixteen.

“Is it so bad, growing up?”

What kind of question was that?

“It’s not what I expected. You’re gone . . . and I’ve never had much of a relationship with Jillian and Johanna.”

“Then change things.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Sometimes you just have to forget all the other stuff and remember we’re sisters.”

“What?” Something buzzed around my ear and I swatted it away. More buzzing. “What do you mean?”

I woke up to the sound of buzzing and struggled to sit upright. What was that sound? My neck ached when I turned my head. I was going to regret my night on the couch.

Digging through the folds of the comforter, I found my cell phone, alarm blaring. Six o’clock in the morning? Here I’d been worried about going back to sleep and having another odd dream —and it was time to get ready for work.

What had the dream been about? What had Pepper said? I shoved my hair out of my face, rubbing at my dry eyes. But trying to remember the dream was like dropping a piece of fragile parchment paper into the ocean and then trying to retrieve it. The words blurred . . . it disintegrated . . . and disappeared with the tides.

I was wasting my time.

All I could do was get ready for work —and make good on my late-night decision to call Jillian and see how she was doing.

With her mother in the kitchen making lunch, Jillian could talk to Harper undisturbed. Even so, she slunk a little lower on the couch, thankful the sound of the TV added another buffer to their conversation.

“You know you don’t have to keep checking up on me, right?” She switched off speaker mode and put the phone to her ear. At least her friend didn’t hear her soft hiss of pain at the movement. “My mom is here this week.”

“I’m not calling you because I have to, Jill. I’m doing this because I want to. How are you feeling today?”

“I feel like I’m about four years old again.”

“What? Why?”

“My mom is helping me get dressed. Fussing about what I’m eating. Reminding me to do my arm exercises. She’s even asking if I’ve gone to the bathroom.”

“So? Johanna and I did that when we stayed with you —”

“You never once asked me about going to the bathroom.”

“Okay, that’s true.”

“And I could tell you to leave me alone.”

“Like you ever did that.”

“No . . . but I could.” Jillian shifted her position again, trying to check over her shoulder to make certain her mother was still in the kitchen. “I’m sorry I’m such a grouch.”

“I understand. How’s your pain level?”

“Not as bad as last week. I might try to start going off some of the pain meds.”

“Just do what the doctor said. You’ve still got the drains in. Why don’t you wait until your first post-op appointment?”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. I just hate feeling sleepy all the time.”

“Sleepy is better than hurting.”

“Right again.”

“What’s your positive thought for today?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”

“Come on, pick one from the jar. That’s what it’s for.”

“It’s in the bedroom, Harper.” Now she sounded like a bratty kid.

“So? Go get the jar. I’m waiting.”

Jillian pulled herself up from the couch, grumbling the entire way down the hall so that her friend could hear her. Harper’s laughter sounded back through the phone.

The simple glass jar filled with multicolored pieces of paper sat on her dresser, the silver lid beside it among a jumble of receipts, earrings, and bracelets.

“Pick one already!” Harper raised her voice to be heard.

“All right!” Jillian dipped her hand into the papers, swirling her fingertips, and selected a bright-purple one as she cradled the phone against her shoulder. The twinge of pain was worth it to keep her friend happy. “I got one.”

“What’s it say?”

“‘When I smile, I feel better.’”

“Okay. Look in the mirror and smile.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Do it.”

Harper would badger her until she smiled at her reflection, so Jillian tilted her head, met her own gaze, and smiled. It was forced. But it was a smile.

“Feel better?”

“I feel ridiculous —and that’s better than grouchy, right?”

“Right. I know this is tough, but you’re no quitter.” Harper’s tone softened. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Get back to work. And thanks for calling.”

Jillian tucked the purple slip of paper into her jeans pocket as she headed back to the living room. Sometimes this whole “positive thinking” idea seemed like an exercise in futility. She would read the line —Think positive thoughts and positive things will happen, or Believe you can —and try to hold on to it. But it seemed to float away, to burst . . . like the rainbow-tinted bubbles her mother used to blow for her and her sisters in the backyard. She’d chase after them, hands reaching, and then they’d pop.

Maybe she’d do better once she was off the narcotics for pain. Once she was sleeping better.

As she sat on the couch, her arm brushed her chest . . . where her breast should be . . . causing her to catch her breath at the pain.

Maybe she’d do better once she got used to her body again.

It had only been a week. Both Dr. Williamson and Dr. Sartwell had said she needed to give herself time to adjust.

One of the first positive thoughts she’d pulled from the jar was Your attitude determines your direction.

She wanted to go forward. Wanted to heal. But she was going slowly.

Her mother appeared, carrying two plates. “Lunch is ready. Are you hungry?”

“A little. Maybe we could watch TV?”

“Sounds perfect.” Her mother set the plates on the coffee table. “I’ll get our drinks. Hot tea sound good?”

“Yes.”

By the time her mother returned, Jillian had tuned the TV to a rerun of Property Brothers. “Just some background noise.”

“I’ve always liked the show.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It intrigues me, I guess, because of the twin brothers. . . .”

“Did you like having twins, Mom?”

“I liked being a mom. Period. Having twins, well, it was a different kind of challenge. I mean, here I was, forty years old and coming home from the hospital with not one, but two babies.”

“I imagine that was a bit of a shock.”

“Yes, it was. Everyone was making such a fuss over the twins, your father included. I was worried you and Johanna would get lost in all the excitement.”

“It’s kind of to be expected, isn’t it?”

“You say that now, but it was a pretty big change for you and your sister.”

“Ye-es, but I don’t feel like I lost you after Payton and Pepper were born.”

“Thank you for saying so.”

They sat without talking, watching one of the twin brothers demolish a kitchen.

“I remember doing this when I was little.”

“What? Renovating a house?”

“Very funny. No. Staying home from school when I was sick. You’d turn on the TV and let me watch daytime game shows.” When her mother touched her hand, Jillian asked, “How are you doing, Mom?”

Her mother half turned to face her. “Me? I’m fine.”

“No, really —how are you?”

“No mother wants to see her child sick . . . or hurt . . . or . . .” Her mother picked at the remains of her salad. “I’m glad I can be here to help you. I’m thankful you’ve got good doctors. I believe you’re going to be okay, Jillian. I really do.”

For a moment, her mother had been vulnerable. Shared some of her fears. But how could she believe that Jillian would be okay? Pepper had died. Maybe her mother thought losing one daughter exempted her from losing another one.

Or maybe her mom survived on positive thoughts, too. Taking it one day, one crisis, at a time. Believing tomorrow would be better. Easier.

Jillian didn’t know. They never talked about it. Pepper died . . . and they all somehow adjusted to one less Thatcher sister in their own way. Now, years later, they were here. Facing her diagnosis. And they just did what needed to be done.

Her mother’s choice to get up and live the next day . . . and the next . . . and the next had been enough when Pepper died. Choosing to do so again would be enough now. For all of them.