Page 1 of What We Break
1
LAINE
"Laine!" Mom's voice crackles through the international connection. "How's my girl?"
"I'm good, Mom. Really good." I lean against my car, watching other nurses hurry toward the hospital entrance. I've got fifteen minutes before my night shift starts. Just long enough for this call, as long as my parents don't get sidetracked talking about the new church they're building. "How's the construction going?"
Shoot! Why did I ask that? I know better.
Last time I asked about construction, I got a forty-minute breakdown of rebar spacing and foundation drainage that made me late for shift. Joyce gave me the look — the one that saysI like you but I will end you— and I had to blame it on traffic like a lying liar.
"Oh, you should see it. Your father's been working with the local men, and they're making such progress. The foundation's done, and we're hoping to have the walls up by next month."
I can picture it — Dad in his work clothes, covered in dust and sweat, hands waving as he explains something to the construction crew through gestures and a whole lot of pointing. The man speaks exactly one and a half languages, but he can communicate foundationspecs through sheer force of mime. I once watched him explain load-bearing walls to a crew in the Philippines using two sticks and a banana. It worked.
I still don't know how.
"That's amazing," I say, and I mean it. The churches are more than churches — they're community hubs, schools, gathering places. That's why my parents do it. That's why they'll probably do it until someone physically sits on them and makes them stop. "How is Dad's back holding up?"
"You know your father. He won't admit it hurts, but I see him stretching every morning." Mom's voice gets softer. "We're not as young as we used to be."
No. They're not. But they've always been so relentlesslybusy, it's easy to forget. These are the people who once drove through a tropical storm to deliver building supplies because "the concrete won't pour itself, Laine." They're supposed to be invincible. They're supposed to be the parents I don't have to worry about.
Except I do worry. More and more. And the fact that I'm on the opposite end of the planet from them —again— doesn't help.
"Maybe it's time to think about slowing down," I suggest carefully. We do this dance every few months. I suggest. She deflects. Nobody's steps change. "You could come visit me here. I've got a real apartment now, remember? A guest room and everything."
Mom laughs. "Oh, honey. You know we can't just abandon the work. There's still so much to do."
And there it is. Right on cue.
I'm not even disappointed. It's like being disappointed that the sun came up. My parents can't imagine stopping. Can't picture a life that isn't the next mission, the next project, the next community that needs them. It's beautiful and suffocating and I stopped trying to argue with it somewhere around age twenty-two. Their work is their oxygen. Asking them to slow down is like asking them to breathe less.
"Tell me about your job," Mom says, changing the subject with zero subtlety. "Are you still liking it?"
"I love it." And the thing is — it's true. I've traveled to a lot ofplaces, but I'd never been to the Pacific Northwest before I accepted this position. Could have been a disaster. I once took a placement in a town in eastern Montana where the most exciting thing that happened in three months was a cow getting loose on the highway. The cow was fine. I almost lost my mind. "Really, Mom. I do. It's different from travel nursing. I know my patients, I know the other nurses. We have inside jokes."
It's more than that, though. It's not having to do all the scut work. Travel nurses are paid a ton, but they usually end up doing all the stuff the other nurses are too busy to do. So being allowed to run the code on the cardiac arrest patient or getting to help the doctors with a tough central line because they trust me is a big deal. And I didn't understand how much happier I would be until I settled here.
And yeah, every patient is important, but dealing with the patients that have alienated all the permanent nurses, the ones who are racists or drug seeking or just plain mean, is exhausting.
"And you're not getting restless? You've been there three months now."
Three months. Not the longest I've stayed anywhere. That record goes to nine months in New Zealand, but I was twenty-four and stupid for a surfer named Caleb, so that barely counts as settling down. That counts as hormones.
But three months is long enough to know if the itch is coming. That thing I've had since I was a kid. The whisper that says you've been here too long, pack the bags, go go go.
It hasn't come.
Which is either really good or absolutely terrifying, and I haven't figured out which yet. Probably both. Knowing me, definitely both.
"I'm not restless," I say. "I think I might actually be happy here."
Who says that out loud? To their mother? Lunatics. People asking to be jinxed.
"Well, praise the Lord for that." Mom's voice goes soft. The warm kind of soft. The kind that makes my throat tighten up. "We've been praying you'd find your place."
My parents pray for everything. The weather, the constructionsupplies, the visa paperwork, their daughter who moved to Oregon and — plot twist — actually stayed. I think they've had a running prayer going for my love life since I was twenty-five. God's been pretty quiet on that front, but they keep filing the request.
