Ned insisted on sleeping on the couch. He showed me the trick of reading the abstract, introduction, and conclusion of every paper first, then underlining the first and last sentences of every paragraph before reading through the entire article. He showed me how to take Cornell notes, and stayed up late with me while I practiced. At midnight, he made ramen for both of us and settled in with a book from my bookshelf, ready to answer my questions if I had any. I fell asleep on my pile of books as usual, with Ned nodding off in a chair in the corner of the living room.
I woke up on my bed, covered with my sheet, my fan turned on. There was a full glass of water on my nightstand, and the books that had lined the pathway from my door to my bed had been straightened up. He'd left my dirty clothes where they were, for which I felt profoundly grateful. As I drank the water, I caught sight of a note stuck to my doorknob:
Wake me up when you get up. I'll take you two out for breakfast –N
I stared down at the note for a long moment, trying to fully get used to the idea that Ned was here, sleeping on my couch, offering to do things for me. Having him gone had gotten so normal to me that I had begun to not miss him. I had missed him the way you miss an old story, or a long-gone pet. Not missing him had become as much a part of me as missing him had been, once, as much as loving him had been before that. The ease with which he had come back into my life, the immediacy with which I had let him, that, too, now seemed so natural that it was difficult to even think about. He might never have been gone in the first place. He might never have been there to begin with.
I tiptoed down the hallway, hoping that he was still asleep, but he was up and sitting at the dining room table, flipping through one of my textbooks. He whistled softly when I came in. "You weren't kidding. This stuff is hard."
"How long have you been up?"
"Oh, since about six, six-thirty. Susie's been up and went back to bed. She wants us to bring her waffles and an iced vanilla latte something-or-other." I glanced to the top Post-It on my stack, where he'd taken painful care to write her order down perfectly, then sat down in the chair opposite him.
"Do you need to take a shower?"
His face turned wistful. "Oh, God, I do. I don't have any clean clothes, though." He ran his hands down his sides under his wrinkled t-shirt.
"You can borrow something of Uncle Liam's, if you don't mind your t-shirts being decades old."
"I find t-shirts, much like fine wine, improve with age. As long as he won't mind," Ned continued, looking concerned. "I mean, I still haven't met him and I've already eaten his food and slept on his couch. Maybe I shouldn't be stealing his clothes."
"It's not stealing if I give you permission," Uncle Liam's voice rang out behind me as he came around the corner, already in his fluorescent vest. Ned was on his feet before I had registered that Liam was there, and he crossed the floor in three steps, his hand stretched for Liam to shake.
"Uncle Liam, this is my friend, Ned. Ned, this is Uncle Liam. My dad's brother," I added, for clarification that none of us needed.
"Good to know you," Liam gave Ned his signature quick handshake.
"Pleasure's all mine," Ned didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, but Liam had already turned to walk into the kitchen.
"Borrow anything you like. It's not fashionable, but it should do you. You're more my size than Billy's, but you can borrow some of his old stuff if you like. You make this coffee, honey?" He turned to me, pot in hand. I shook my head, gesturing at Ned, who had returned to his seat. "Thanks. Saves me making an extra Dunks trip." He poured a travel mug full and set the pot back down, making the bottom sizzle.
"There's leftover pizza for breakfast," I said over my shoulder as Liam's head disappeared into the fridge.
"So I see. Nice of you kids to save me the smallest possible pieces." He stuck his tongue out at me as he straightened, plastic container in his hand. He bent down to give me a quick peck on the cheek, then juggled his food to shake Ned's hand again. "Sorry I couldn't sit a while. And sorry to hear about your brother. Stay here as long as you need. Friend of Flannery's." He shrugged.
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it." Ned was on his feet again.
"Anytime." Liam winked at me and headed out the door, the screen slamming shut as it ushered in a wave of hot air.
There was a silence as I looked up at the somewhat stunned look on Ned's face. "I feel like I just met the person your brother's going to be in twenty years."
I burst out laughing. "Don't let either of them ever hear you say that."
Once Ned and I had both showered and changed, we headed out for breakfast. Susie, caffeinated and fed, joined us on the journey back to MassGen. Ned took one look at the bag of books I intended to haul with me to the hospital and pulled out his phone to rent a car for the week. At Mansfield, that move wouldn't have meant anything—I'd never had money, but I'd grown used to people throwing theirs around like it didn't matter—but now I knew what a dollar meant, and I felt a twinge of guilt as he tucked his phone away casually.
Susie sat between the two of us, asking Ned endless questions: "Where did you go to college?" "Where do you live now?" "What do you, like, do?" "So you think God exists?" "How big are your feet?" "How tall are you?" "How old are you?" I waited for Ned to nudge her and tell her to shut up, the way Billy sometimes did, but Ned answered every question without seeming to mind their rapidity, bending his head to listen to her responses. In the middle of their chatter, I leaned my head back against the train window and stared at the stop map, thinking.
How long would it be until Tom got better? Would he get better? For Ned's sake and for my own, I hoped he would, but I couldn't be sure. How long would Ned need to be with us?
Gloria, everyone's favorite healthcare professional, had gone home to her family, but Nurse Pataki, the charge nurse, beamed when she saw us coming down the hall. Ned caught his breath next to me.
"Good news. He's doing much better."
"He's awake?"
She shook her head, walking with us, her clipboard under her arm. "Not yet. We're still keeping him under so we can minimize any chance of brain damage. But his liver's coming back, his blood work's looking better, so he's on the right road." She stopped right outside Tom's door, letting us walk ahead of her. "I told your father the same thing when he got here."
Ned skidded to a halt. I slammed into his back, while Susie jumped nimbly out of the way. Ned and I put our hands out to catch each other, both painfully aware of Dr Bertram's eyes beating down on us from his great height. For a moment I was tempted to hide behind Ned's back—he was taller than me, he could protect me—but after everything, that seemed like a step in the wrong direction. Cursing my desire to be treated as an adult, I stepped out and stood next to Ned, while Dr Bertram's eyes swept over both of us again.
"Edward." I had expected his voice to be the hard, unforgiving boom it had always been. I wasn't prepared for the slight rasp, the unanticipated softness. Beside me, Ned was rigid.
"Dad."
"Fawn," Dr Bertram nodded to me.
"It's Flannery, Dad." Ned seemed on the edge of his patience.
"So I've heard." Dr Bertram turned away from both of us to gaze down at Tom's face. He was still ghostly white, but the gray tinge that had worried be before was almost gone now.
I cleared my throat. "He is getting better, sir. You can see it. He's getting some of his color back." I came around to the other side of the bed where I could look Dr Bertram directly in the face. Ned held his place at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed unpromisingly over his chest.
Dr Bertram grunted but didn't look up. The fact that I had spoken to him of my own free will didn't seem to faze him. Behind Ned, Susie cleared her throat, then again, louder.
"Dr Bertram, this is my little sister Susie." I gestured to where my gangly sister was looking both deeply uncomfortable and completely fascinated. I expected Dr Bertram to ignore that comment, too, but he turned where I indicated and, for the first time in at least ten years, I saw a genuine smile cross his face. He looked like Tom. He looked like Ned. He held out his hand to her to shake.
"Susie. I'm so pleased to meet you. I'm Thomas Bertram. Ned's father."
Susie shook Dr Bertram's hand with enthusiasm, a smile quirking up the corner of her mouth. "I'd always kinda thought of you as like some Disney villain. But you don't have horns."
Ned choked on a laugh, turning away so no one could see. Dr Bertram was still smiling as he bent his head toward my sister. "Don't be so sure. I have it on good authority that you can see them in the right light."
Ned and I exchanged a glance. The Dr Bertram I remembered had always been formal and austere, a dark-clad man standing against a window, an empty presence at the dinner table. His smiles had been rare, and almost never bestowed on me. From what I could tell, Ned was just as nonplussed.
"Well you should know a couple things, sir. First is that I don't like how you called my sister Fawn when that's not her name."
Dr Bertram sat down, unbuttoning his blazer in one fluid motion. He crossed his ankle over his knee and nodded, settling back into the armchair. "Noted. And the second?"
"Second is that, and no offense meant, but we were here first. In the hospital, I mean. So I don't think it's fair that you're acting like you own the place."
My grimace cut her off, but not soon enough. I tried to imagine what would have happened to me if I'd ever spoken to Dr Bertram like that. I remembered the shouting matches Tom and Dr Bertram had had—even through the study door, or down a flight of stairs, they had been horrible. The fact that Susie had delivered her impertinence in a perfectly respectful tone of voice might not be enough to save her from Dr Bertram's rather considerable aptitude for displeasure.
Ned opened his mouth to jump in but Dr Bertram just smiled again, this time ruefully.
"It's not often that anybody corrects my manners these days. But you're right, of course. Please forgive my rudeness. Would you like this seat?" And he was on his feet again, offering Susie his chair.
Susie nodded at me, "No, but I think Flannery's probably real tired." I shook my head at her, alarmed. She was smiling a little, and I knew that look. It was the one she wore when she got her way too much.
"Of course. Where are my manners, indeed." Dr Bertram stood, rebuttoning his blazer and turning toward me. "Flannery." It was the first time he'd said my real name since I was eight years old. I glanced at Ned, who was watching his father as if he were speaking a foreign language, then came around the edge of the bed. I didn't really want to sit down, but Dr Bertram had never given me anything, at least not that I could remember. I settled myself down awkwardly, aware that now all of that had been said, I had no idea what to do.
Luckily for me, Dr Bertram had no expectation of me carrying on a conversation. "How long have you been here, Edward?" The consistent use of Ned's full name suggested that they were still on uneasy terms.
Ned's arms were crossed, and he was watching Tom's face rather than his father's. "A little over a week. First I was looking for Tom, then I was here."
Dr Bertram nodded, smoothing his tie with an offhand gesture. "Staying with Faw—Flannery and Susie?"
"Last night, yes."
Dr Bertram nodded again. Neither of the men looked at each other; both of them stared down at Tom's face, still white against his pillows. I caught Susie's eyes and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. We might have not even been there, but I knew what would happen if we tried to leave. The Bertram family hashed out their problems in one room—they always had.
"Prognosis is positive. No cirrhosis. Only possible brain damage and some loss of bone density." Dr Betram put both hands behind his back. I wondered if they were shaking. His voice was calm, though, with no sign of stress. He might have been reading off a grocery list. He might not have been standing over his eldest son's prone body.
"Possible brain damage would be bad enough on its own," Ned answered quietly. Susie came to perch on the arm of my chair. I tried not to lean into her, take some of her strength for myself. Instead, I held out my hand. After a sidelong glance, she put hers on top of mine, clasping it firmly.
"Semantics. Possible, not probable. Probable would be worse news." I looked at Ned, looked or an eye roll or a glance my way, but instead I saw him take a deep breath, then another, to steady himself. His voice, when he did speak, was unbearably quiet.
"He's your son."
Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. Susie put her hand on top of mine, finally, for once, holding her tongue.
The silence between Dr Bertram and his younger son stretched out. Tom's machines whirred and beeped until finally, just as quietly, Dr Bertram said, "Yes."
This family. I tried hard not to shake my head, not to call attention to myself, but my mind was raging. They were all together, they all loved each other, and they had absolutely no idea how to show it, not in words and not in actions. My own life was bright and easy compared to them.
The silence stretched out again. The two men stood side by side, not looking at each other, not touching, just watching Tom breathe, seeing his heart beat.
Finally, Susie said, "Tell us a story?"
Ned turned around, caught sight of the tears streaming down my cheeks, and blinked his own away. "About Tom?" Susie nodded. I waited for Ned to decline; none of the Bertrams were storytellers, except maybe Tom himself.
Instead, Ned cleared his throat and said, "One day, when we were really little, Tom got a pirate sword for Christmas."
Dr Bertram's shoulder shook slightly with laughter—he knew this story well.
"Our mother said I was too young to be playing with weapons, so they gave him this pirate sword, and it was made of out wood, just beautiful. I don't think I've ever wanted anything quite as much as I wanted that pirate sword. I drew pictures of myself playing with it. I dreamed about it." He paused.
"But it was Tom's," Dr Bertram says.
"But it was Tom's. And I knew that I was the younger one, and I didn't get to have the things that he got. So I watched him play with it and I tried to pretend like I didn't want it.
"One day, though, I got so jealous that I couldn't stand it. Tom was playing something I thought was the best, Pirate King probably, and I got so upset that I pushed him down and ran away crying. I was about six years old," he smiled and winked at me, and I smiled up at him, wiping at a tear about to fall off my cheek. His eyes rested on my face for a moment, maybe looking for something.
"The next morning," Dr Bertram prompted.
"Right, so the next morning," Ned said, eyes still on me, "I wake up from my troubled, sword-filled sleep on to see this long, beautiful pirate sword on my bed, with a red sticky bow on it."
"Tom gave you his?" Susie sounded impressed by Tom's selfishness.
Both Bertram men laughed. "Absolutely not," Dr Bertram said, shoulders shaking.
Ned looked at his brother, still smiling. "He begged and pleaded and petitioned our mother to let him get me one that looked almost the same. He did chores and cleaned his room and she finally agreed."
"So you both had pirate swords," I said, clearing my throat.
"So we did."
There was silence for a moment, but it was lighter now, in spite of the tears still running down my face. I couldn't stop them, so I let them fall. Then Dr Bertram said, "He always wanted to be a hero. He would come home from school with pictures and pictures of heroes he drew, pages of stories he'd written. He was obsessed with King Arthur and Robin Hood, knights with noble missions and brave deeds. It lasted until he was about thirteen, then he stopped talking about it, stopped reading those books, drawing those pictures. We thought he'd grown out of it, his obsession."
"He never did," Ned whispered.
"No. It would seem not." They lapsed into silence, and we all turned toward the bed, quiet, watching the possibly damaged miracle of Tom breathing, in and out, out and in.