Page 16 of Really Truly Yours
There goes the rest of the money I’ve saved to put toward the stack of last year’s medical bills. That eight hundred was going to pay off the anesthesiologist, removing at least one bill from my pile completely. Any hope of replacing my personal laptop with one that doesn’t freeze at least twice a day is out the window, too. School? What’s that?
I find my voice. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”
“I wish there was more I could do.”
“You and me both.”
Sam’s getting more water whether he wants it or not. I blast the tap and fill the cup. As I position the faucet to the angle that stops the drip, something registers. “Wait. You said first of all.”
His bottom lip gets chewed by the top. My gut seizes, a way-too familiar sensation. Please, Lord, don’t let me relapse. “Sam?”
He draws himself from the chair and plants his palms on the short breakfast bar. “Max may be getting paroled.”
“What? He’s not eligible until next year!”
“Nope. He called the other day. He’s got a hearing coming up.”
The cup shakes along with my hand. No. I can’t do this right now, not when I’m only now starting to feel a little like myself again. “But he still has to get through the hearing, right? The board could deny his request?”
Dad’s incarceration taught me the process. I used to feel like a horrible daughter, praying parole wouldn’t be granted, but I understood how destructive his reentry into my life would be. Then he died.
“Sydnee, Max has changed.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“I mean it, Nee. You’re not going to have to worry about him.”
“You’re one-hundred percent certain of that, are you?” I feel like a feral cat the way I spin and hiss.
His mouth puckers.
Of course he isn’t. He’s not the one who got the brunt of Max’s dysfunction. Sam also isn’t the one Max blames for his demise.
I slam the cup onto the bar. “They could still deny his request. It isn’t a sure thing.”
His shoulders shrug up and hold. “I don’t know, Nee. His lawyer tells him it is, given his age, time-served, and good behavior.”
Good behavior? I could tell them a thing or two about his behavior. Him and his lousy pack of friends.
And I did precisely that at his sentencing.
“Sydnee…”
“I don’t want to talk about this.” I slam my arms over my chest. “When can you take me to the grocery store?”
He holds my stare before sighing. “Um…I got to get back now, and tomorrow I’m going to be slammed. Friday?”
“One of my prescriptions runs out tonight.”
“Okay, I’ll try to make it over before the pharmacy closes.”
“Thank you.” I grip the counter as if I can’t stand on my own.
I am desperately tired of always having to be the strong one.
In the meantime, I’m going to step up my prayers. Max can’t happen. What little life I’ve created for myself will be blown to smithereens if my older brother is released any time soon.
I lock the deadbolt behind Sam, shivering, and turn down the window unit in the living room. In my bedroom, I turn off the unit there entirely and curl up between the top sheet and the puffy, garage-sale comforter. The home holding the sale was in one of Chandor’s many nice neighborhoods, and the floral, genuine-down spread, although dated in color and pattern, is the most luxurious thing I own.