Author's Note: 100 Followers! :Happy Dance: I am so honored that you all like my story!
Please keep reviewing with your thoughts, ideas, and impressions. How did people feel about the Christmas memory? I'm toying with the idea of putting some more old memories in later in the story. Also, anyone else having mad problems with the site this week? Yeesh.
Jesus:
I groan when I hear Lena's voice. She's been nudging me awake every thirty minutes for the last four hours. She says it's what the doctor told her to do, but I don't know why. Doesn't your body need sleep to heal? Isn't that what they're always telling us in health class?
I open one eye. Lena is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch I'm sleeping on. We're all camping out in the living room again, like when Mom got shot. No one wanted to be alone tonight.
Jude's sleeping on the floor next to Mariana. I'm sure she would have preferred the couch, but I think she could tell Jude needed her. Those two were fused at the hip today.
I tried to make Lena take the couch I'm sleeping on, but she wanted me to sleep on something soft. Mike's kicked back on the other couch, still in his uniform, snoring his head off. It's kind of funny. He sounds like a dragon mixed with a tea kettle.
Lena's still nudging me, trying to make sure I'm really awake. She looks exhausted; her eyes are completely bloodshot.
"I'm up, I'm up!" I say quietly. She puts her finger to her lips, and points at Jude. I don't see why. The kid looks dead to the world to me. For some reason he's holding a sweater with a Christmas tree on it as though it's a security blanket. That kid keeps getting weirder.
"How'd you get him to sleep?" I whisper.
Mama smiles.
"Nyquil."
I raise an eyebrow. Her smile grows. I can't tell whether or not she's joking.
"You look like you could use some, too," I tell her.
She shakes her head.
"Someone has to wake you up."
"Not me," I say. "I'm fresh as a daisy. I'm going to stay up from now on. You get some sleep."
"I could not believe you less, Jesus."
I cover a laugh. She knows me well.
"No, really," I tell her, "I'll go get some coffee, you go to bed, and I'll wake you up if anything feels weird. The doctors said you only had to do this for eight hours, and it's been seven since they diagnosed me."
She hesitates.
"No coffee," she says, clearly caving.
"No coffee," I agree.
I hand her a pillow and a blanket and she lies down. It takes her about a minute to fall asleep. I ease off the couch to go get a snack, but as I'm walking across the room Brandon wakes up with a start.
"Easy. Just me," I tell him. The dude's been tripping all night. I expected it more from Mariana, but aside from some muttering she's basically sleeping like a baby.
Brandon tosses off his blankets and follows me into the kitchen. I pull some cereal down from the cupboard while he opens the fridge and stares blankly inside.
"We've got leftover pasta," I suggest. He doesn't even seem to hear me.
"Hello?" I wave a hand in front of his face.
"I found Callie in here, the morning after Mom got shot. She was making biscuits. She said they were comfort food."
This is news to me.
"Like, the bread things they give you at KFC?"
He nods. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say.
"Brandon, are you, like, in love with Callie?"
"Jesus!" Brandon literally puts his hand over my mouth. I push it off.
"Dude, no one's awake," I tell him.
"You don't know that!" He says, peering around the doorway at the four snoring people in the living room.
"I'm guessing that's a 'yes,'" I confirm.
He glares at me.
"If I did like Callie, and I'm not saying I do, then no one can ever know. Comprende?"
"Si, señor!" I give him a military salute, but he doesn't smile.
"I'm serious, Jesus. She and Jude could get kicked out of the house. It's completely against the rules. And if, for instance, something would happen that would make her afraid she would get kicked out, she might, for example, run away so that her little brother could stay. That's all I'm saying."
It takes me a second to work through that convoluted mess, but I see the look on his face and realization dawns.
"Dude, did you and Callie…?"
He shakes his head emphatically. He peers around the doorway one more time, then points to his lips. My mouth drops open.
"You kissed?" I can't believe it. How did I miss that?
"Je-sus," he hisses, looking around like CPS agents are about to come out of the walls.
"Sorry, sorry," I tell him. "I'm just surprised. So that's why…?"
Brandon looks so upset I wish I hadn't said anything.
"Oh, hey, that's not your fault. It takes two to kiss, man. And nobody could have known what that Liam douche was gonna do."
Brandon just looks worse. I have to do something to get him out of his head. He's going to kill himself if he thinks he caused what happened to Callie.
"Come on," I wrap my arm around his forehead. "Let's go Google biscuit recipes. Maybe Callie would want some."
Brandon's face brightens a little bit, and I try not to think about what Mama's going to say tomorrow when she comes in for coffee and walks into a flour-covered disaster.
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Brandon:
By the time we've found a biscuit recipe, located the ingredients, and mixed up a batch that doesn't look lumpy glue, the sky has turned lighter and the birds are starting to chirp. It was interesting trying to cook without waking anyone up, but we managed okay. We used our hands to mix the dough, like I'd seen Callie do, and when Jesus knocked a cookie sheet off the counter I caught it before it hit the floor.
I look over at Jesus, who has dough streaked across his shirt and flour in his hair. He must be tired, but he's not showing it. He's hovering by the oven, opening the door every five seconds to see if the biscuits are cooking. I feel a rush of gratitude towards him. I know his idea to play Betty Crocker was something he did to make me feel better. And it worked. As long as I've been measuring and pouring and mixing, I've been able to keep from thinking about Callie. I wonder how she's doing right now. Is she asleep? Is she awake? Is she talking to my mom?
And where is Liam? What kind of sick, twisted world is it that they were both in the same hospital last night?
I hear footsteps behind me and spin around, but it's just my dad.
"Hey B," he says wearily. "Got any coffee around here?"
He goes over to the cupboards and starts banging around. I can tell he's trying to be quiet, but he's not doing a good job.
"I'll find it," another voice says from the doorway. We turn to see Lena, still wrapped in a blanket, watching as my dad adds insult to injury in the mess that is her kitchen. Mike steps back and Lena retrieves the coffee and measures it into a pot.
"Care to explain?" She asks, glancing at the flour covering her kitchen counter.
"Comfort food," I tell her. "Callie likes them."
Lena gives me a small smile.
"Good thinking," she says.
"What's good thinking?" Mariana comes into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and her neck.
"You're brothers are making some biscuits," Lena informs her.
"You're cooking?" Mariana looks at me and Jesus like we just said we're dancing in Swan Lake.
"For Callie," I tell her.
"Oh." She walks over to Jesus, who is trying yet again to open the oven, and smacks his hand.
"You need to keep the door closed, genius." She fiddles with a button on the stove and a faint yellow light turns on inside. Jesus looks as sheepish as I feel. We forgot about the oven light.
Breakfast feels normal and completely strange, all at the same time. None of us are hungry, but we all sit around the kitchen table and pass some cereal back and forth. Same chairs, same table, same bowls and spoons. But there are two empty chairs now, and my dad is sitting in Jude's seat because Jude is still passed out on the floor.
No one feels much like talking, so it's mostly just spoons clinking and birds chirping. I don't like that. I need something to distract me, or I might go insane. Maybe I should take up baking full-time. If my heart keeps feeling like this, I might have to open a bakery professionally.
"Will we get to see Callie today?" I finally blurt out.
Everyone looks at me, and then at Lena.
She takes a deep breath.
"I don't know Brandon. I don't know how she's feeling, or how self-conscious she's going to be. I don't know what kind of night she's had. If she says she's up for visitors, I think it might be okay to go in one at a time with me or Stef. But we shouldn't push her, okay?"
I nod. I wonder exactly what Lena means by self-conscious. Self-conscious because of the attention? Self-conscious because we know, in all likelihood, what Liam did to her? Self-conscious because of…how she looks?
If that's what it is, I need to prepare myself. I can't go in there and react with surprise or horror at how she looks. It would hurt her feelings so badly.
"Mom?"
Lena looks at me.
"Is Callie going to be…disfigured?"
Lena sighs.
"I don't know Brandon. She's probably going to have some scars. But she's still going to look like herself."
"Does she look like herself right now?" I know I'm pushing it, but I need to know this.
Mariana and Jesus, and even my dad, are looking back and forth between me and Lena like it's a tennis match.
I can see my mom struggling to find the right words.
"Brandon, she looks like she was in the ring with Mike Tyson. But she still looks like Callie."
I remember Liam's hand. His bruised knuckles. He hit Callie so many times he injured himself.
I wish I'd killed him.
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