Page 20 of Never Forget
Jack's childhood room was Rosie's now. He and Sarah had moved into the master after they got married, and when Rosie came along, they'd converted his old room into a nursery. Pale yellow walls. A mobile of stars and moons. I remembered him showing me photos when she was born, so proud he could barely form sentences.
She's perfect, Jamie. She's absolutely perfect.
The living room still had the same couch, reupholstered twice but never replaced. I sank into it, pulled my knees to my chest, and let my eyes drift across the space.
I could almost see them. Jack and Sam tearing through the house, roughhousing the way boys did, knocking into furniture while Mom yelled at them to take it outside. Megan sitting cross-legged on this same couch, braiding my hair while some show played on the TV, both of us shouting at the boys to keep it down.
Sam had been a fixture in this house ever since. The kid from down the street who showed up for dinner so often my mother started setting an extra place without asking. He was always here—shooting hoops in the driveway, doing homework at the kitchen table, sleeping on the floor of Jack's room after late nights of whatever trouble teenage boys got into.
He'd grown up in this house almost as much as we had.
I wrapped my arms tighter around my knees.
After our parents died, Jack and I inherited the house. Our parents hadn't been rich—not Henderson rich, not Montgomery rich—but they'd been comfortable. The life insurance covered the mortgage. There was money for my school, money for groceries, enough of a cushion that Jack could catch his breath before he had to start running.
He was twenty years old. A sophomore in college with a girlfriend and a plan and a future that had nothing to do with raising a fifteen-year-old.
He came home anyway.
I'd never asked him if he resented it. I was too afraid of the answer.
I remember the day he told me he was going to apply to the fire academy. We were sitting on the back porch, the summer before my senior year.
"Firefighters are first responders." He was staring at the yard, not at me. "First on scene. First ones through the door when someone's in danger." His jaw tightened. "I couldn't save Mom and Dad. I know that. But maybe I can make sure some other kid doesn't have to go through what we went through."
He'd said it so simply. Like it was obvious. Like the path from grief to purpose was a straight line anyone could walk.
That was Jack. He always knew who he wanted to be. He never wavered, never second-guessed, never looked back. He saw a problem and he ran toward it, even when—especially when—everyone else was running away.
He was, to me, in every way, a hero.
"Hey."
Mark appeared in the doorway, rumpled and bleary, his hair sticking up on one side. He'd pulled on jeans but no shirt, and he looked cold, arms crossed over his chest.
He crossed the room and kissed my temple. "How long have you been up?"
"A while."
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Some."
He nodded, not pushing. That was one of the things I'd always appreciated about Mark. He knew when to press and when to let me be.
"Coffee?" He was already moving toward the kitchen. "I saw a machine in there. I think I can figure it out."
"Cabinet above the sink. Filters are in the drawer to the left."
He disappeared around the corner. I heard him opening and closing cabinets, running water, the familiar sounds of someone navigating an unfamiliar kitchen. A few wrong drawers. A muttered "where the hell" before he found the filters.
I should have gotten up to help him. But I couldn't quite make my body move.
"What's the plan for today?" His voice carried from the kitchen over the sound of the coffee maker starting to gurgle.
"Funeral home at 10:00 a.m. We need to finalize the arrangements." I pushed myself off the couch, finally, and walked to the kitchen doorway. "Then the florist. Then Jack's lawyer wants to meet about the will and guardianship paperwork."
"That's a lot."
