Page 11 of The Storm

It’s Mom who’s been diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. But it’s me who can’t breathe.

There are eyes on me and pity in the air. I refuse to acknowledge either.

“I’m sure there are things we can do,” Liz says. “We’ll find the best specialists. We’ll consult?—”

“I’ve already seen every specialist.” Mom sounds even more tired than usual. I’m already halfway to my feet. It’s none of their business!

“There is no cure,” Mom says.

More silence. Tense, awkward silence. Because what do you say to that?

“A transplant?” Liz says softly.

“I’m on the list, but… There’s no… It’s…” She fumbles with her words a bit, but then she recovers. “I’ve deteriorated quickly.” She sounds almost matter-of-fact. “And finding a donor… It was always a longshot.”

I want to scream. No, it’s not. Why the fuck does it sound like she’s already given up?

“Then what can we do?” Liz asks. “Anything.”

I’m frozen in place.

A traitorous hope bangs in the middle of my chest.

Maybe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe there’s something they can do. Maybe these people with more money and more connections and more… everything, will have some magic cure, and they’ll make everything right.

For just a moment, the impossible weight lifts. Just the tiniest bit. The hope and the imaginary relief mix into something almost tangible.

In a matter of seconds, I’ve grabbed that tiny ember and blown it way out of proportion.

And the fall?

I smash to the ground at the speed of light with what comes next.

“When I go,” Mom says, “I need you to promise me you’ll take care of Nick.”

I should have figured, but somehow it still comes as a surprise. A complete shock. The soda can I’m still holding drops from my hand. It makes an unholy noise as it slams against the roof and then starts to bounce down the tiles.

I don’t wait until it hits the ground. I’m already back inside the house. I tear the door of Indy’s room open and fly down the stairs, through the living room and the kitchen, and then I’m outside on the porch.

I come to a screeching halt, out of breath and so angry I’m shaking.

“That’s why we’re here?” I shout. “So you can pawn me off to some other family? To strangers?!”

I’m being unfair. So unfair. But the anger I’ve been holing up now has an outlet, and I can’t stop it from exploding.

That’s why we’re fucking here in the first place, and I don’t know how I didn’t get it. How I didn’t see it.

Mom pushes herself up from the chair. Her eyes are so impossibly wide. “Nick.”

It’s as if everything about her is faint. My ears ring, and it feels like she’s turning blurry right in front of me.

“I want to go home,” I grit through my teeth. “Right now.”

“Please,” she says. “Listen to me.”