Page 11 of Never Forget
I closed my eyes. I could picture him in a bed that was too small, hooked up to machines he'd never admit made him nervous, waving off nurses with that stubborn charm he'd perfected over the years. Jack hated being fussed over. He'd once walked around with a broken wrist for three days because he didn't want to "make a big deal out of it."
"Jack."
"Jamie." He matched my tone exactly. "I'm fine. I promise. Come visit next week like we planned. Rosie's been asking about you."
Rosie. My chest ached at the thought of her.
"She keeps pointing at your photos and asking when the Little Mermaid is coming to visit.”
Auburn hair and blue eyes. That's all it took for a four-year-old to decide I was a Disney princess.
I laughed despite myself. "She still thinks I'm Ariel?"
"You're not going to convince her otherwise. She's got your imagination." He paused. "And your stubbornness. Lord help me."
"The imagination, that’s me. The stubbornness, that's all you."
He was laughing now, and it made me feel better, even if the laugh turned into another cough at the end. "Go celebrate, Jamie. I mean it. I'm proud of you."
I wanted to tell him I was proud of him too. That I thought about everything he gave up for me more often than he knew. That I didn't say it enough, but I carried it with me every day.
Instead, I said, "I owe you. Big time."
"You're right. You do." I could hear the grin in his voice. "I'm thinking a statue. Life-size. Bronze. Right in the middle of Marion Square."
"You want a statue."
"With a plaque. 'Jack Donovan: World's Greatest Brother.' Maybe some pigeons. For ambiance."
I laughed. "I'll see what I can do."
"That's all I ask." He paused. "I love you, Jamie. I'll see you next week."
"I love you too."
The line went dead.
I sat there for a long time, phone pressed against my chest, trying to convince myself that everything was fine. Jack said he was fine. The doctors were just being cautious. He'd be out by the weekend.
He was always fine.
So why couldn't I shake the feeling that something was wrong?
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I found myself on my couch in the dark, a box of old photos on the coffee table in front of me. I hadn't looked through these in years.
A family trip to the beach when I was seven or eight. Mom, Dad, Jack and me, all of us sunburned and smiling. Jack and me at my high school graduation, his arm around my shoulders, both of us squinting into the sun. Rosie as a baby, asleep on Jack's chest, his hand spanning her entire back.
I stopped at one near the bottom. A childhood photo, faded and creased at the corners. Jack must have been sixteen or seventeen, which made me eleven or twelve. We were in someone's backyard, and there was a third person in the frame.
Sam Reeves.
He was grinning at the camera, sun-browned and easy, frozen in the middle of whatever game we'd been playing. Jack's best friend since we were kids.
I traced the edge of the photo with my finger.
I'd always liked Sam. He was kind and steady and had the sort of smile that made you feel like everything would be okay. But he was Jack's best friend, and I was just Jack's little sister. Whenever Sam was nice to me, I told myself it was because he had to be. Jack would've had his head otherwise.
