Page 10 of The Storm

“Like the time you were all obsessed about whether or not it’s possible for a bird to be afraid of heights,” India muses.

Indy holds up one finger. “To be fair, I was nine.” He pauses for a second. “To also be fair, I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

“Dude, they fly.”

“The ones that would be afraid of heights clearly wouldn’t, so they might be real, and maybe you just don’t know because you don’t see them.”

I absently roll the can of soda between my hands while I listen to them. I wonder what it feels like to have a sibling. Not just a sibling. A twin. Somebody who knows you better than anybody else. Somebody who can read you like a book and knows all the lyrics of your soundtrack by heart.

“How old are you?” India asks. “Do you have your license? Do you have a car? I’ll be so jealous if you can drive. I’ll, like, push you off this roof.”

“I’m fifteen,” I say.

“Ah, well. Welcome to our boat, I guess. When’s your birthday?”

“September.”

“Us, too,” India says. “Thirteenth.”

“Twelfth,” I say for some reason I can’t even explain to myself I find myself drawn into this conversation, and I start to feel less on edge.

Somewhere below, a door opens, and then there are footsteps.

“Here,” Liz’s voice says. “Take a seat. Do you want a sweater? I’ll get you a sweater.”

“Liz, it’s fine.”

I snap my head up at Mom’s voice.

“Shh,” India whispers.

“Wh—” I start to say.

Indy’s palm covers my mouth.

“Shh. Don’t ruin our eavesdropping spot,” India says in a whisper so quiet it melts into the sound of the leaves rustling on the trees.

“It’s nice outside,” Mom says. “You have a beautiful home. Truly. I’m… I’m so… glad. Happy. For all of you.”

“Claire…” Liz says softly.

“Don’t,” Mom says. “No pity. That’s not why I’m here.”

My whole body tenses, and I have an almost unbearable urge to slide myself off the roof and put an immediate stop to this conversation. Our business is none of their business.

“How long?” Liz’s voice is gentle.

There’s a slight pause. I feel like vomiting.

“Six months. A year,” Mom says. “Maybe.”

“Six months!” Liz’s voice rings out in the quiet of the night. “Jesus, Claire. My God. And that’s… Why didn’t you come to us sooner?”

“Since when did you change professions? Last time I checked you weren’t a pulmonologist.”

“We have the means to...” Liz seems to be lost for words.

“To what? Hate to break it to you, but you can’t buy me new lungs.”