“So, like, someBachelor-type stuff.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“The reality show?”
“I don’t watch reality TV. Or any TV at all, to be honest.”
A sighing laugh. “Oh, well, whatever. Regardless, I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you, Jen.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
I swallow hard. “You know anyone who can perform miracles?”
“My cousin goes to church. I can have her pray?” A tense silence. “I’m worried how this is going to shake out for you, Wes.”
“Me too. But I’m not thinking about that. I’ll deal with that if and when the time comes.”
“You know we’re here for you.”
“I know. And I’m grateful for you both.”
* * *
Midnight goinginto day three of sickness.
She took another pill a few hours ago. The fever broke, finally, so that feels like improvement.
My doorbell rings. I drag myself off the couch and to the front door—I’m not expecting her family until tomorrow; they arrived in LA not long ago, but Jolene is sleeping and they decided to let her rest.
I pull the door open. “Dinah?”
My sister could pass for my twin, despite being five years older. Same blond hair, though hers is long and usually back in a French braid, same brown eyes, same facial structure. She has a strong, lean, athletic build from the waist up, and before the accident she was a multisport varsity collegiate athlete—all-state track, all-state soccer, and state champion field hockey team captain. Then, the accident. It only slowed her down for a few months, though, and then she picked herself up out of the emotional dumps and rebuilt her life. Now, she spends as much time in the gym working out and training clients as she does in the art studio.
She has a six-pack of beer in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smells of burger and fries emanating from the bag. “Hey, bro-ski.” She regards me with pursed lips and a frown. “Wow, you really look like shit.”
I huff a laugh, and back up to let her in; I wouldn’t tell her this, but another reason I chose this house in particular was that there are no steps anywhere in the house, so she can roll from front door to back door with ease, only a few thresholds to bump over.
“Hey, Di.”
She follows me into the living room, sets the six-pack and carryout on the coffee table, and then tosses her purse onto the couch. With practiced, graceful ease, she transfers herself from her wheelchair to the couch, adjusts her legs, and then points at the beer. “Grab me one, would you, Wes?”
I crack one open for her and one for myself—the last thing I feel like doing is drinking, but a beer with my sister is kind of our thing. She shows up randomly with beer and food, and we talk about deep things.
I take a sip and then divvy out the food, burgers and fries from a local drive-through. Garbage food, but I’ve neglected to eat for quite a while, and Jolene would want me to.
It just feels wrong.
“So.” Dinah washes a handful of fries down with a swig of beer. “Why do you look like a sad sack of shit?”
I make a pressing down motion with a flattened hand. “Keep your voice down, please.”
She blinks at me. “You live alone. You don’t even have a cat.”
I sigh, take a seat beside her and attack the food—now that I taste and smell it, I realize how hungry I am. “You’re not going to believe the story I have to tell you.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
