Page 27 of The Sun & Her Burn

“Miranda,” I said patiently. “She’s one of your best friends.”

“She can be both things,” she pointed out. “Just like you can somehow be my daughter and be so ugly. Clearly, you didn’t get my genes.” She peered at me. “Though at least you got my breasts. You used to be flat-chested just like a boy.”

She devolved into making a series of clicks with her tongue, a tic that came with her FTD. We had a doctor’s appointment next week, and I was both anxious and nervous about it. She seemed to be declining faster lately, and I worried about what would happen when she needed full-time care, such as assistance with the bathroom every time. For now, our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Ramirez, was a Godsend who didn’t mind looking after Miranda while I worked for ten dollars an hour, as she ran her sewing business from her house and could easily do it from the guest room I’d converted into my design studio. However, she wasn’t a qualified nurse, and despite hours of research on FTD, neither was I.

We just simply didn’t have the money to get better care.

Whatever money Miranda had made as a young actress had been spent nearly as fast as she could earn it, and her husbandshad the good sense to protect themselves in their prenups. Wyndam didn’t know how bad it was. Otherwise, he might have offered to help us. However, I felt bad asking for his money when Miranda had broken his heart by cheating on him.

Dad and my uncles had offered, but they didn’t have a lot of money to spare even though their charter boat company was doing better than ever. I knew Dad even considered moving out to help me with her. He and Miranda had never spent more than a few hours in each other’s company since I was born, so I couldn’t just let him uproot his whole life.

The only thing that made sense was for me to move out and do what I could for her.

Dr. Jamshidi, Miranda’s doctor, said that typical life expectancy with FTD could range from seven to twelve years.

We were on year four of her diagnosis even though I only moved in a year and a half ago.

Sometimes, when I was alone at night in bed, exhausted after a day of caretaking and working but unable to sleep, I wondered if I could really sacrifice another four to eight years of my life for her.

“Linnea?”

I startled, turning to see Miranda staring at me with clarity, her hands twisted in her lap, and her mouth twisted with fear.

“What’s happening to me?” she whispered.

I abandoned my trowel and gardening gloves to go to her, crouching in front of her chair and gathering her cold hands in mine.

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said softly, rubbing my thumbs over her knuckles. “You’re okay.”

“I don’t feel like myself,” she admitted weakly. “I don’t like it here.”

“Okay,” I said, forcing the words through my tight throat. “Do you want to go inside?”

She clicked her tongue again as she struggled for the words. Finally, she nodded, but when I tried to stand, her hands tightened on mine.

“You won’t leave me, will you?” she whispered fiercely, leaning forward to bare her teeth at me. She hated to brush them now, and I had to pay a dentist to visit us at home to examine one of her broken crowns because she refused to go in. “You won’t leave me like all the rest of them.”

“No, Mom, I won’t leave,” I promised as I always did, tipping forward to press my forehead to hers.

For a long moment, we stayed like that, her frantic breathing slowing until she was slouched against me.

“Okay, let’s get you inside,” I murmured, moving to her side and wrapping an arm around her back to help her stand.

“Let me help.”

I looked up to see Sebastian on the pathway. He wore black sunglasses, white linen shorts, and a black button-up shirt undone at the top of his chest, revealing a swathe of bronzed skin and some chest hair visible in the gap. Even without the celebrity, he would have been extraordinary limned in sunlight, smiling gently at me as if he wanted nothing more than to help me.

My throat went dry.

Taking my silence for acquiescence, he moved forward to Miranda’s side and helped us stand her up.

“Clark,” Miranda said sharply. “Where are my flowers?”

Sebastian chuckled. “I left them in the car so I could help you in the house, Miranda, but I’ll grab them for you.”

“Good man,” she praised because she always had a ready smile and a compliment for a handsome male.

Miranda shuffled her way into the house with Sebastian and me on either side of her for support, and she sighed wearily when we helped her into her velvet chair in the living room.