Twisted Fate

by Jessi Elliott

  The doctors and nurses file out of the room, and I stand, staring at the wall, forced to listen as my parents sob over the death of their son, knowing there was nothing they could do to make him better. They pull me into a hug, and the three of us hold each other up as we cry for the loss of Adam.

  I’m not sure how much time passes before any of us move. We leave the room; Dad is all but carrying Mom through the hospital as she wails into his chest. I walk in front of them, oblivious to, or not caring about, the people who turn to look at us. Have they never seen people leaving the hospital after losing a loved one? It’s ridiculous.

  We sit in the parking lot and stare at the building where Adam is lying dead, his body not strong enough to fight off pneumonia because it was weak from the medicine meant to make him better.

  “Okay?” Dad asks, breaking the silence in a voice so beaten down my chest tightens.

  Mom says nothing, just sits there staring at her hands while her shoulders shake with soundless sobs.

  “Drive,” I mumble from the back seat. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes. More than anything, I wish that I could go back in time and never have left his side.

  I didn’t get to say goodbye.

  Once we get back to the house, Dad helps Mom into the living room, and I retreat to my room, not ready to endure what comes next. We’ll have to call the family and tell them that Adam got worse and didn’t make it. Nothing makes sense right now, not now that Adam is gone.

  Gone. He’s never coming back. I’m in a state of confusion and denial. I think about him being gone, and it’s as if I don’t believe myself. It doesn’t matter that I stood at the hospital and listened to the doctor tell me he was dead, or that I saw his still body, covered in ugly hospital bedding. I still don’t believe it.

  Tears leak out of the sides of my eyes and fall down my cheeks. I turn my face and press it into my pillow to muffle the sob that rips free from my throat. I scream at the top of my lungs, then cry, my entire body wracked with tremors until there’s nothing left, and I’m dry heaving. Every muscle in my body aches. I can’t force myself to move, to get up and drink some water to ease the terrible burn in my throat. A part of me doesn’t want the pain to stop. Once it does, I’ll either start crying again or feel nothing at all, and that fact scares me so much I can’t move.

  Adam didn’t deserve to spend the end of his life as an invalid, enduring treatment and being poked with needles. He didn’t deserve to have cancer or to die, but I figure most people who have suffered the same fate didn’t deserve it either.

  It’s been a week since Adam died and was cremated. My parents are holding off on a funeral to give our extended family time to arrange travel plans, so his service isn’t until next Sunday. They’re both off work on bereavement, but I’ve already missed a week of classes.

  I’ve learned in the last several days that everyone grieves differently. While Mom and Dad can’t think about going back to work yet, I need to go back to school. I need something I can put my energy into that isn’t thinking about my little brother. He wouldn’t want me to be sad forever, even if deep down that pang of loss will always be there.

  I’ve spoken to Allison a couple of times since it happened. Tristan calls every night and stays on the phone while I cry myself to sleep. Both of them wanted to come to Mapleville, but I wouldn’t let them, fearing it would make everything feel more real. I’m barely hanging on as it is.

  My parents drive me back to Rockdale after dinner Sunday evening, and it’s never been so difficult to say goodbye to them, even though I’ll be home again in less than a week.

  “You don’t need anything before we head back? Groceries or anything?” Mom asks.

  I manage a small smile. “I’m okay.”

  They’re having as much trouble saying goodbye as I am. If I think about them driving back to an empty house, I’ll never let them leave. I’m sure Tristan would give them a suite at the hotel, but I wouldn’t ask that of him, and they wouldn’t want to live in a hotel for a week—no matter how fancy it is.

  I hug them both for a long time, praying Mom won’t cry again. I won’t be able to hold back my own tears if she does, but I’m thankful she keeps it together.

  Once they’re gone, I head to my room and dump my duffle bag on the floor beside my desk. Allison isn’t here, so I write her a note that I’m back in the city before I leave, walking with my head down through the residence building. I feel eyes on me everywhere; word travels fast around here.

  At the campus streetcar stop, I stand in the pouring rain without so much as a hood to cover my head. When the streetcar arrives, I stare out the front window the entire ride and get off at the stop I’ve gotten so used to over the last few months.

  I swipe my all-access employee card and ride to the penthouse suite. My reflection in the mirrored panel of the elevator makes me cringe. I look like a drowned homeless person. My hair and clothes are soaked through, and yesterday’s mascara that I’d put on to meet with the funeral director streaks down my cheeks.

  Once I get off the elevator, I stand in front of the door for a lifetime before I knock. My hand shakes as I rap against the dark wood with a closed fist. Water from my hair drips down my face and onto my shirt. My body shakes, and my toes are all but numb—like the rest of me.

  The door swings open, and I lift my head until our eyes meet. His expression is hard, the sharp lines of his face defined by the dim light behind him.

  He closes his eyes and lets out a breath. It’s such a human thing to do. “Aurora,” he says in a hushed tone.

  When he opens his eyes, he reaches for me, but I flinch away. If he touches me, I’ll come undone.

  “I . . . don’t know . . . why I’m . . . here,” I admit through chattering teeth.

  He ushers me inside. My skin sings at the warmth of his living room, but I feel awkward dripping rainwater on his floor.

  “You’re going to get sick,” he says.

  I don’t respond.

  He sighs. “Skylar,” he calls.

  The door to his home office opens, and Skylar walks out, frowning when she sees me. “What’s this?” she asks.

  “I need you to help Aurora into the shower. Get her warm so she doesn’t get sick.” Ha. Wouldn’t that be tragically ironic? Me getting pneumonia.

  She blinks a couple of times. “Okay. They’re waiting for you.” She jerks her thumb back toward his office.

  He nods, shifting in front of me, and grasps my chin in a gentle hand. “I’ll be back. Please let her help.”

  Once he decides I’m not going to respond, he drops his hand and walks away.

  Skylar eyes me as she approaches with hesitation. That’s a first.

  When she puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me through the suite, I don’t protest. Once we make it to Tristan’s bedroom, Skylar leads me into the en-suite bathroom and flicks on the light.

  “I know we’re not friends,” she says.

  I glance at her.

  “But I’m sorry,” she continues. “I know what it’s like to lose someone important. No one deserves that.”

  I nod in acknowledgment.

  Skylar turns on the shower and turns away while I peel off my wet clothes. Under other circumstances, I would be mortified, but right now I couldn’t care less. She gathers my clothes and leaves me alone.

  My eyes travel around the room, taking in the elegance. Marble counters line one wall with two massive sinks, a white porcelain clawfoot bathtub, an all-glass shower, and a fireplace with a flat-screen television installed in the wall above it. Over-the-top is an understatement.

  I stand in the hot spray of the shower until I stop shaking and can feel my limbs, and then I continue to stand there, letting the water mix with the tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “I love you, Adam,” I say to the empty room.

  The last words I should’ve said to my little brother keep playing over in my head until my legs give out and I slide down the glass
wall onto the floor of the shower. Hell, I don’t even remember what the last words I did say to Adam were.

  I pull my legs to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I’m shaking again, but it’s no longer from the cold.

  My brother is dead. My brother is dead, and I didn’t get to say goodbye.

  “Aurora.” Skylar’s voice makes me glance up. “Oh.” She frowns. “Tristan asked me to check on you.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “You should get out now,” she suggests before reaching over to turn off the water.

  “Don’t!” I scream.

  Her eyes widen as she steps back. “Aurora—”

  “Get out! Leave me alone!”

  “It’s okay—”

  “Get out,” I cry.

  She shuts off the water, getting the front of her blouse wet. She wraps her fingers around my wrists and pulls my hands away from my knees. “You can’t stay in here,” she says in a firm tone, holding my hands in hers.

  When I don’t say anything, she sighs, reaching behind her to grab a towel, which she wraps around my upper half.

  “Stand up,” she instructs in a softer tone.

  I blink at her. I don’t want to move.

  She tucks the towel under my arms and lifts me until I’m standing in the shower, holding onto her arms. She guides me out and onto the bathmat.

  “Your shirt’s all wet,” I inform her.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Okay,” I mumble, staring at the delicate buckle on her belt.

  “Aurora,” she says in a quiet voice.

  I glance up to meet her gaze, and my bottom lip trembles. I blink a few times, but the sting of tears is too strong. “Adam is dead,” I say as a sob tears free.

  “I know,” she says and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  She hugs me to her side while I cry in the middle of the bathroom.

  Skylar leads me into the bedroom and hands me a shirt. It’s one of Tristan’s. She looks away when I drop the towel like she didn’t see me naked in the shower a few minutes ago, and I pull it on, buttoning it until it covers my breasts. It falls to just above my knees, and I roll up the long sleeves.

  “I’m going to get Tristan,” she says, heading for the door.

  “Skylar,” I call after her. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  She pauses, turning to face me. “It’s okay, human. You’re forgiven. This time.” The faint quirk of her lips manages to make me smile. For once, the tone of her voice when she calls me human doesn’t sound like an insult.

  I’m fidgeting with the hem of the oversized shirt I’m wearing when Tristan walks in. His eyes darken as they take me in.

  “What?” I ask.

  His jaw works. “You, in my clothes . . .” he trails off as his eyes continue to devour me where I stand. “Are you warm enough in that?”

  I nod, closing the distance between us and grip his arms. “I’m sorry I showed up without any notice,” I whisper.

  He dips his face down, and some of his hair falls into his eyes. “Don’t apologize, Rory. I’m glad you came,” he says. He wraps his arms around me, and I press my face into his chest, inhaling, comforted by his clean, crisp smell. It’s familiar—it’s Tristan.

  “Stay here tonight,” he murmurs.

  I peer up at him. “In your bed? With you?”

  His lips twitch. “In my bed. With me.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  He leans down and brushes his lips across my forehead, alleviating the pounding behind my eyes. I’m not sure when the dynamic between the two of us shifted so significantly, but it’s during moments like these that it’s clear that it has.

  I slide my fingers along the fabric of his collar. “Thanks,” I murmur.

  He nods. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m okay.”

  He grazes my cheek with the back of his hand before he walks away and takes off his dress pants, tossing them into a hamper. He takes his time undoing the buttons on his shirt before adding it to the laundry, and pulls on a pair of dark gray sweatpants.

  I sit on the end of his bed, staring at my hands in my lap. “Skylar was nice to me.”

  He chuckles. “You sound surprised.”

  I lift my head to look at him. “Aren’t you?”

  He tilts his head. “Maybe a little, but I think you’ve grown on her.”

  I find myself hoping he’s right.

  Tristan sits beside me and sighs. “‘I’m sorry’ isn’t sufficient for me to say to you, but nothing is right now. Adam was a kind young man who didn’t deserve to have his life cut short before he had a chance to live it. I know you’re in pain. I know you’re devastated—I can feel it. But try to remember, through all of the pain you feel, Adam is watching over you. He’s right there with you, always. He’s proud of his older sister, and he loves you. That love will last forever,” Tristan continues, “long after tonight and long after his memorial when you’ll say goodbye to him for the last time.”

  My lower lip trembles as I nod. “Th-thank you,” I manage to say.

  “Why don’t we get some sleep?”

  “Okay,” I say, standing to walk around to the side of the bed and crawl under the covers. Tristan does the same on the other side.

  We lie facing each other for a while before I slide over and wrap my arms around him. He circles an arm around me and runs his hand up and down my back.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I cry into his shirt.

  He tips my chin up with his other hand. “It feels that way right now, but you’re the strongest person I know. This pain, this heartbreak, is the worst thing you’ve ever experienced in your life, but you will bear it, and it will make you stronger.”

  I shake my head. “What if I don’t want to? What if I can’t?”

  A hint of a smile touches his lips. “You underestimate your own strength, sweetheart. I thought you knew better than that.”

  I cast my eyes downward, my damp lashes fanning my cheeks.

  “Rory,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to be brave or strong right now. Just know that when all of this is over, and you have a minute to breathe and start to move on, you will do so with a grace that continues to captivate me every day. That’s who you are. You know that.”

  Somewhere, deep down, a part of me that isn’t broken and grieving knows he’s right, even if I don’t believe it right now.

  The day of Adam’s memorial, the sky is bright and clear—the first day without rain in a while.

  Mom and Dad spend the morning locked in their bedroom, which leaves me to get ready in silence. I sit on the end of my bed in the plain, knee-length black dress I picked out last night. I drop my gaze to the notecards in my lap and sigh. I spent hours working out what I wanted to say about Adam, but right now nothing seems good enough. I stare at the words until they blur into black splotches on the cards, and then I tuck them into the pocket of my jacket.

  There’s a soft knock at my door before Mom peeks her head in.

  “Almost ready?” she asks. Her dress is similar to mine aside from the short sleeves on hers where mine is sleeveless. Her hair is up in a soft twist, and she applied a bit of makeup that she has already cried off. Her eyes are puffy and red. How else should she look?

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be right down.”

  She nods, a solemn expression on her pale, tear-stained face, and closes the door.

  I take a shaky breath and let it out before I slip on black heels and shrug on my jacket.

  I walk out of the room and pause at the closed door before the staircase. My hand reaches for the handle, but I stop myself, biting my lip. I shake my head and keep walking, meeting my parents downstairs in the front hallway.

  “We can do this,” Dad says.

  I nod. “We have to. For Adam.”

  “For Adam,” he agrees, and Mom covers her mouth to muffle a sob.

  We’re escorted into the back of a car, and I stare out the w
indow the entire drive to the cemetery.

  Adam would be happy. So many people sit in rows, facing where his silver-and-black urn sits on a podium. We sit in the front row with Mom’s parents and Dad’s mother, and behind us sit family members I don’t remember that well or have never met. Among the crowd are teachers from Adam’s school, some of his friends and their parents, and more faces I’m unfamiliar with. Allison and Oliver are two of the only ones I recognize, and they offer small, sad smiles when I see them.

  The pastor talks about love, life, and loss, and a bit about Adam and his short life. Dad chokes back a sob beside me, and I reach over to grasp his hand. He looks over at me and smiles through the tears, squeezing back.

  The time comes for me to speak, and I stand, giving my dad his hand back. I walk the short distance to the podium and pull out my notecards, the crowd silent as I prepare myself.

  As the wind blows and the faint smell of the roses surrounds me, I close my eyes and inhale, letting the breath out a few seconds later. I lift the notecards and read the first line in my head before I stop and set them face down beside the urn.

  “Adam was this incredible person that my parents brought into this world—into my life—and who I had the privilege of calling my brother. We all knew him differently. Some were friends, some were family, and if you were lucky enough, you were both.” I stop to take a breath, and my eyes connect with familiar stark blue ones in the crowd.

  Tristan holds my watery gaze, his expression soft and solemn.

  For the number of moments he’s made my head spin, his presence now is steadying. It’s exactly what I need to get through the rest of Adam’s eulogy.

  I return to my chair and stand with my parents as the urn is placed into the ground. Mom, Dad, and I step forward and drop roses on top of the soil after it has filled the spot where Adam’s ashes now lie. I close my eyes as wetness trails down my cheeks, and my parents wrap me in a sob-filled hug while we all say goodbye to Adam one last time.

  My house is filled with people after we return from the cemetery. I don’t remember whose idea it was to have a reception here, but if it was mine, I’m regretting it now. A grieving person can only handle so many offers of condolence and hugs from people they should know the names of but don’t. That’s what happens when you have a huge family. I’ve been offering smiles and accepting hugs from family members I don’t know for over an hour now, and all I want to do is sneak to my room and lock myself inside until everyone leaves. Allison and Oliver are around here somewhere, helping my parents by handing out drinks and whatever sympathy food people brought with them. I feel guilty, but they’re such social people, they don’t mind chatting with my family.