Page 84 of Run Home

Startling awake, I momentarily panic about where I am until I register the familiar view of my parents’ backyard out the windows. I’m still lying on the couch, but my mom is no longer sitting next to me. There’s a throw blanket covering me, and I can tell the sun is low in the sky.

Rubbing my eyes as I sit up, I hear my parents’ voices in the kitchen. Padding my way to them, I see take-out bags from one of my favorite local taco places sitting on the counter. “Hey, Dad,” I say as I walk through the door.

He turns, his face drenched with compassion, and holds out his arms. “Hey, kiddo.”

I lean into his hug, then attempt a smile. “You only thought you got rid of my drama this year.”

Dad places his hands on my shoulders and gives me a stern look. “I never want to get rid of you. You could come home every August twelfth for the rest of your life, and your mom and I would gladly sit with you. We’ll sit with you in every dark room for the rest of our lives, as long as you need us.”

I give him a small nod, and he squeezes my shoulders as he adds, “But I think you have some other people willing to sit in the dark with you too. It’s okay to let them.”

But everything about Adrian is light. Bright, neon energy. Why should he dim that to be with me?

I keep my thoughts to myself, suggesting we eat some dinner. I manage to eat one taco while I ask Dad about his general contracting business, plying him for any signs of retirement. As we finish eating, my mom tells me, “I called Ian while you were napping. He’d like to talk to you if you’re feeling up to it.”

Wiping my hands over my face, I nod. My parents clean up the table while I grab my phone and step out onto the back patio. Ian answers after the second ring. “Hey, Sammi.”

“Hi, baby brother,” I say, the typical greeting both soothing and crushing. I pull in a sharp intake of breath to stop myself from crying again. “How’s your day been?” I ask.

“Busy,” Ian replies. “I picked up some extra lab hours. I just left campus a few minutes ago.” He pauses, and I can picture his big smart brain searching for the right words to ask how I’m doing.

I save him the trouble. “Yeah, my day sucked, per usual.”

“I’m sorry, Sammi. Should I fly to KC next year?” Ian asks.

“No,” I state. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to drag you down with me. Not when you’re capable of functioning like usual.” Chewing the inside of my cheek, I tentatively ask, “How . . . how do you function like usual?”

Ian’s sigh is heavy. I pace the length of the patio while he explains, “It’s never been exactly the same for me. You know that. Our brains coped with the trauma in totally different ways—mine blocked out most of the memories. I had to work really hard with my therapist to even recall anything to process through it. So I don’t make that effort now. I let the memories stay blocked behind the firewall while I keep busy.”

Ian clears his throat, and when he speaks again, I can tell he was clearing away atypical tears. “Sammi, I’m sorry that it’s so much worse for you. I feel guilty that I’m—”

“No way,” I cut in. “Don’t you dare feel guilty. I’m so happy that it’s better for you.”

“But you know it’s better for me because of you,” Ian says. “You took care of me when our mother didn’t. You cared for me so much that Charles practically ignored me until that day. Then you got us out before it could get that bad for me. I can function today because you got me out that day.”

Tears well up and spill over my cheeks.

“I’ll drive to the airport right now and fly home. We could spend tomorrow together,” Ian suggests.

“I love you for being willing to do that, but no. You stay right there, curing cancer with your research friends,” I say.

Ian’s voice takes on his exasperated-genius tone when he says, “You know I’m not doing cancer research, right? We’re researching options to address declining biological diversity caused by climate change and—”

“Yeah, but it will probably cure cancer someday,” I tease, ending a long scientific explanation that would definitely go over my head.

“Sammi. It’s literally not—”

“I’m just kidding, baby brother. I love you and your smart brain,” I say. “But my brain is currently toast. I won’t be able to follow any of the words you were about to say.”

Ian huffs a laugh. “Fair enough.” He pauses. “You know you can always call me, right?”

“I know,” I sigh. “I’ll try to get better at actually doing it when I need to.”

“Love you, sis,” Ian says.

“I love you too,” I reply, and end the call.

When I go back inside, my parents are already sitting on opposite ends of the couch, each reading a book. There’s a blanket waiting on the middle cushion and a throw pillow on my mom’s lap, so I take up my usual place between them. Mom gently scratches my scalp with one hand while holding her book with the other, and I stare in silence.