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Josh cracks a tiny smile and nods.
Ten minutes later, Caroline, Reagan, and I are crammed onto my narrow bed and Josh is stretched out on top of his sleeping bag on the floor with a pillow tucked under his head.
“Can you sing to us, Auntie Em?” Reagan mumbles. Her voice is already heavy with sleep.
I start humming. The moment I do, she cracks a yawn that sounds like whale song. Caroline scoots a little closer, spooning Reagan, and before I even finish the second chorus, they’re both fast asleep—Caroline in her cold-and-dead slumber and Reagan with her noisy little freight train snoring.
Josh, however, is far from asleep. He’s still in the same position, staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling. I slide carefully out of bed and join him on the carpeted floor. He shifts to the side to let me in.
“Trouble sleeping?” I ask as I lay my head right next to his.
He just nods. I don’t ask for permission; I just take his hand. “You know, your mother would have been so proud of you for being brave when your sisters needed you tonight.”
He turns his face to the side so we’re nose to nose. “Really?”
“Big time. You’re a lot like her, you know.”
He smiles shyly. “Like how?”
“Like this right here. She used to get in my bed at night when I had nightmares. She used to hug me really tight and sing me songs ‘til I fell asleep. She used to protect me all the time. Just like you protect your sisters.”
His smile flickers and falters. “Sometimes, I have to think really hard to remember stuff about her.” He licks his chapped lips and grimaces as he sighs. “I don’t know if what I remember is because I actually remember it or just ‘cause I’ve seen pictures.”
I swallow back my own grief so that I can focus on Josh’s. “Time is funny like that. It makes things unclear. But trust me: when you least expect it, you’ll remember something about her that you’ve forgotten you know.”
His big brown eyes flit back to the ceiling. I don’t see the tears on his cheeks until the siren light of a passing ambulance sets the room aglow for a moment. “Canyouremember her?”
“I can,” I assure him. “Don’t you worry. I’ll remember her for the both of us.”
I move a little closer to him and start whispering little stories in his ear. I tell him about Sienna and her short-lived breakdancing career: three of the longest weeks of my life. I tell him about the bejeweled ballet flats she saved for half a year to buy because our parents refused to get them for her. I tell him about the time she baked me a cake for our thirteenth birthday using salt instead of sugar.
“Your mother was a lot of things, but a good baker? She most definitely was not.”
“What did it taste like?”
I wrinkle up my nose. “Horrible. Speaking of things I still remember, actually, I don’t think I’ll forget that taste as long as I live. But we didn’t want it to go to waste, so we mashed it up with ice cream and chocolate syrup and then it tasted pretty damn good.”
Tears are pricking at my own eyes now. She made me that cake because Mom and Dad had been skiing in Geneva the weekend of my birthday. They sent a postcard and signed it,Best Wishes from Your Mother & Father.Sienna said, “Fuck that—” which was only the second time I’d ever heard the word—and stayed up all night baking. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen until morning, when she proudly presented me with that cake, all gorgeously frosted with pink and white buttercream.
I still remember her smile when she took my blindfold off.
“Your mother was marvelous, Josh. Even if you forget everything else, never forget that.”
When I get no response, I glance to the side only to discover that his eyes are closed and he’s breathing softly. Smiling, I pop a kiss on his forehead and crawl toward the door. I leave it open a crack and head into the living room, which is only marginally disastrous thanks to my panicked attempts at cleaning up when Ruslan was here. Pretty sure he saw me kick Reagan’s ratty soccer ball under the armchair.
I fish it out and collapse onto the sofa, squishing the ball to my chest. “Ugh,” I groan as the smell of mothballs hit my nostrils. I drop it onto the floor and reach for my phone instead.
Phoebe picks up mid-yawn.
“Shit, sorry—did I wake you?”
“Nah, just oozing into the couch.”
I sigh longingly.When was the last time I’d had the freedom to do that?“Lucky.”
“You sound exhausted. Did you just get home?”
“No, I’ve been home for a while, actually. Just got the kids to bed.”
