Page 78 of Spectacular Things

All In

On the second floor of Huntington Hospital’s East Tower Annex, a nurse leads Cricket down the hall of the Critical Care Unit, to a dark room where Mia lies prone, eyes closed, skin sallow, attached to multiple machines. Cricket rubs her eyes but the tears just keep coming.

“We gave her fluids, and the doctor wants her to go through a round of dialysis before she leaves—the cross-country trip wiped her out, but she’s okay,” the nurse emphasizes. “And if you talk to her,” she nudges, “I bet she’ll listen.”

Cricket wipes her face with the sleeve of her bright green gameday jersey.

She assumes Oliver is nearby, with Betty, speaking with a doctor, and Cricket feels a shameful pang.

A child should never have to fear for her mother, or spend time in a hospital, but because of her own decisions, her own inaction, Betty is here.

“Mia,” Cricket says, leaning over her sister. “I’m so sorry.”

The monitor acknowledges Cricket’s apology with a noncommittal beep.

“I just thought—you’ve always come up with what you’ve—what we’ve needed, you know? You just always found a way—”

“She tried,” Oliver says, entering the room with Betty strapped to his chest. Facing outward in her carrier, Betty proudly crinkles the plastic sleeve of vending machine peanut butter crackers in her tiny hand.

She waves both arms at Cricket, and Cricket waves back, dazed at the sight of her own mother’s sled-dog eyes.

Betty is no longer the newborn she met ten months ago but a little person whose outlook hinges on Cricket’s choices.

“It’s been hell,” Oliver continues. “Also: Hi.”

“I’m sorry,” Cricket says, turning to Oliver. “I just—”

“The worst part is that she really missed you,” Oliver interrupts. “In spite of it all, she missed you, and the fact that you were suddenly everywhere, brazenly having the time of your life while we—”

“No, I wasn’t,” Cricket sniffs, using the hem of her game jersey to wipe her nose. “I thought I needed to finish what we’d started, win enough games and make enough money to—”

“Cricket?” Mia croaks from the hospital bed, her small voice drawing all attention to her as she opens her eyes and lifts her head ever so slightly.

Betty reaches out for her mother so Oliver places their daughter on the bed.

“Hey,” Cricket says, taking her sister’s hand and leaning in close, until their noses are a millimeter apart. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry and I’m here and I’m all in.”

“All in?” Mia asks.

Cricket nods. “For the last—I thought—I mean, I get it now.”

“What?” Mia rasps, her voice sounds painfully dry.

“You finally need me,” Cricket says, fresh tears falling.

“I’ve always needed you.”

“Not until you needed a kidney.” Cricket tries and fails at a smile.

“No,” Mia interrupts, slow and deliberate. “I needed you—and I still need you—because you’re my sister.”

A knock, and Oliver stands while Mia and Cricket try to compose themselves.

“Excuse me?” the woman says, craning her long neck around the door and into the room. To their surprise, she is not a doctor or a nurse. “Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to—”

“Sloane,” Mia announces from her hospital bed. “Get in here.”

Cricket feels the room simultaneously expand and shrink as Sloane steps into it. “The nurse told me you’re okay,” Sloane says, smiling at Mia.

“She’s okay,” Cricket confirms, beaming and feeling oddly whole, like Sloane isn’t an intrusion so much as a completion.

It’s then that Betty decides to test the laws of gravity by diving headfirst off the hospital bed.

Cricket rushes to catch her, but Sloane gets there first and swoops Betty midair.

Hugging Betty to her chest, Sloane raises one eyebrow at Cricket to silently point out that she got there first, that her reflexes are still second to none.

“Nice hands,” Oliver says, reaching out for his fearless daughter.

“More!” Betty demands, and everyone laughs.

Cricket is relieved that the attention remains on her niece because she feels a tingling in her ribs and a buzzing through her limbs that she’s never before experienced.

She is still wondering if this sensation is just what absolute relief feels like, or if such an extreme physical reaction might be indicative of something else entirely, when Sloane walks over and hugs her.

But the embrace does not provide any comfort. Nor does it convey a sense of peace.

At all.

In fact, Sloane’s hug terrifies Cricket, because it electrifies her, spelling out the answer to her heart’s question in high-wattage lightbulbs too bright to face alone:

It’s her.

It’s always been her.