Page 21 of Little Pieces of Light

Sunday morning, I was awake before dawn.

I was still dressed in my jeans and sweatshirt from the night before.

I wouldn’t have cared, but the sweatshirt smelled like smoke.

I changed my shirt, brushed my hair and teeth, and ran downstairs.

Jack may have acted like he hated me these past few years, but the thought of him waking up alone made me sick.

Muffled voices met me as I neared the kitchen. I peeked inside to see my mother, still in her nightgown and robe, sitting on a stool at the island and my father leaning against the counter opposite her. He wore a scowl while she glared back at him through bleary eyes.

“Enough is enough, Grayson,” she hissed. “What more do you want? We’ve already lost—”

“Don’t say it,” he cut her off with a slashing motion.

Mom slid off the stool and tightened her robe around her. “I’m saying no. I know you don’t like that, but for once, I’m saying it. He stays. He stays before you run him out the door too.”

My heart thudded in my chest, and I stepped into the kitchen as my mother made her way out. She stopped short to see me. “Emery…”

“We’re going to the hospital now, right?” I looked between her and my dad’s red face and angry glare. “To see Jack?”

Mom nodded. “In a bit. I need to get dressed. I need to…prepare.”

She stepped past me, and I looked to Dad. “Well?”

He gritted his teeth, arms crossed in quiet fury for having been told “no.” I guessed he’d told her his plan to send Jack somewhere terrible and she’d vetoed it. A first, as far as I knew.

“Daddy…?”

“Not now, Emery,” he snapped and walked past me. “I have some things to wrap up. I’ll be along shortly.”

I stood alone in the big kitchen, listening to the silence and feeling time ticking away. Then I grabbed my keys and headed out.

***

At Newport Hospital, I gave Jack’s name and received directions to the fourth floor burn ward. His private room, purchased for him by our father, looked more like a suite. Not because our dad wanted him to have the best, but because he wanted to keep the news of this incident from spreading.

A doctor—a middle-aged woman with reddish hair—was just stepping out. She looked relieved to see me.

“Oh, hello. Are you family?”

“I’m Jack’s sister, Emery.”

“Hi Emery, I’m Dr. O’Connell. I’m in charge of your brother’s care while he’s here.”

“How is he? I mean, how bad is it?”

“What we’re seeing is encouraging, actually,” she said. “Initial assessments last night were grim, but after careful evaluation and preliminary treatment, I’m happy to report that the damage wasn’t as severe as we’d thought.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“To be clear, Jack has sustained serious burns that will require him to wear special dressings for weeks to prevent infection. That he clenched his hand into a fist likely saved his fingers, and there’s no underlying damage to fascia or tissues, which means I think he can avoid surgery.

We’ll keep him here a few more days and keep a close eye. ”

“That all sounds really good,” I said. “Can I see him?”

Dr. O’Connell’s gaze flickered over my shoulder, looking for the parents that were surely racing down the hall to their son… Seeing no one else, her brow furrowed, and she gave me a smile.

“Go on in. He’s awake, but the painkillers are strong. He might not be himself.”

I nodded as if I knew what Jack was like as himself. He’d hardly spoken to me in years.

The doctor left, and I knocked. “Jack?”

“Go away,” came a tired voice.

I stepped inside anyway. Jack was lying in the bed, the head elevated, staring out the window at the parking lot below.

His left hand was wrapped in a strange, gauzy-looking glove, and he had IV lines trailing out of his elbow.

His face was pale against his dark hair, but he looked okay.

Better than I’d expected, just like the doctor had said.

“Hey,” I said, slowly drawing closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Great. Never better.”

“Jack—”

“What do you want, Emery?” he snapped, his clear blue eyes—eyes like Dad’s—turning to glare daggers at me.

“Why are you so mad at me? Why are you always so mad at me?” I waved a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to argue. I just wanted to see you and make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s a little late for that,” he muttered.

I took a seat beside his bed. Closer, I could see gel smeared down the skin of his forearm below the gauzy mitt.

I wished Mom were here to smooth his hair and tell him she’d take care of him.

And that Dad would sit beside him and vow to help him through whatever he might be struggling with that made him do such a thing…

But those were fantasy parents. All he had right then was me.

“Jack,” I said, trying again. “ Why ?”

My brother’s gaze moved to the ceiling, shining with tears. “Because I had to get it out.”

“Get what out?”

“All this pain,” he said, his voice a whisper. “For Grant. I feel like I’m going to explode because Mom and Dad don’t…” He swallowed hard, and a tear slid down his cheek. “So my brilliant drunk idea was to force it out. Just…reach into the fire and grab it and show them.”

Tears flooded my vision. “Oh, Jack.”

He sniffed and wiped his eyes with his good hand. “But whatever. They don’t care.”

“Mom is coming,” I said quickly. “She’s just slow and Dad said—”

“Ah, there it is. The Emery Excuse Express, right on schedule.”

“What? No, I’m just—”

“You want to know why I’m pissed at you, Emery? Because you do this every time. Make excuses for them. Defend them.”

“I’m not defending them. I just wanted you to know they’re coming soon—”

“Oh, thank fucking God, they’re coming soon. ” Jack rolled his eyes, his voice thick with bitter sarcasm. “Good to know. Next time I’ll stick my head in the fireplace and see if that gets them to pick up the pace.”

The image sent a cold shiver down my spine. “Don’t say that. I’m not making excuses. I just…”

I don’t want you to feel so alone.

But he was right. We were both alone in this and on opposite sides of the field. “I feel like if I don’t keep trying, it will all fall apart,” I said in a small voice.

Jack sighed. “It fell apart a long time ago, Em. When Grant died.”

I glanced at the door and leaned closer. “Last night you said some things. I don’t know if you remember. About Grant. You said…you said they killed him.”

Jack stared at me for a long moment, conflicted, a hundred thoughts behind his eyes, as if he were struggling between what to say and what to keep to himself.

“I’m tired, Emery,” he said finally, turning away. “I’m so tired. I want to sleep now.”

“Jack…”

“Go back to your pep rallies and your boyfriend and your dances.”

I bit back tears. “That’s not fair.”

“No, I mean it,” he said, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’re better off. It’s better if you…”

But he took whatever he was going to say into sleep. I sat with him for a while, wiping my tears, and then I left.