Brielle

Sobbing.

The noise wakes me from a dream, the haze of exhaustion still attempting to restrain me as I roll onto my side, my eyes parting just enough to make out the trembling figure hovering beside my bed.

“Sammy?” I whisper, my voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

I reach over and turn on my bedside lamp, the bare bulb blinding, and wince as my pupils struggle to adjust to the sudden brightness.

“M-ma fe—own.” Samuel whimpers, the thumb in his mouth warping his words past recognition. I scan him, taking in the pants of his favorite pajamas, a flannel decorated with multicolored trains, that cling to his legs. He had an accident?

“Ma fe own?” I repeat his words, gritting my teeth as frustration blooms in my chest. It’s nearly impossible to understand him when he speaks like this, but now is not the time to scold him for a habit he picked up in his infancy. With a rushed breath, I rerun his words through my head, piecing together the broken sentence until it clicks. Mama fell down.

“Shit.” I move, scooping my little brother into my arms, and race with him down the hall toward the back of the house, panic churning my stomach.

Our mother is currently undergoing chemotherapy for a brain tumor they discovered shortly after Samuel’s dramatic arrival into the world. The radiation treatment leaves her weak and lethargic, but the tumor it’s targeting can cause dizziness, fainting spells and seizures. Which one is the reason she fell?

“Mom?” I’m unable to keep the panic from my voice as I spot her, crumpled in an unconscious heap on the carpeted floor by her bed. “Mom…?” I kneel beside her, the scent of vomit assaulting my nose as I set Sammy on his feet and grasp her wrist, squeezing until I can feel her weak pulse drum unsteadily against my hand. She’s alive. “Mom, can you hear me?”

I release her wrist and reach across her body to grab the opposite arm, gently pulling it until she rolls limply onto her back. Her face and clothes are covered in last night’s chicken broth—the only food she can manage to keep down—and her forehead is bleeding as if she struck something when she fell. Dammit, where is Dad? I scan the dark room, my eyes jumping from his untouched side of the bed to the work boots thrown haphazardly in front of the closet door. Did he just get home?

“Dad, help!” I glance over my shoulder, praying to see him peering around a corner, or running to our rescue, but he isn’t. The house behind us is dark and empty. “Dad?”

There’s no response, no call from his distant voice, telling me that he’s coming. We’re on our own. My head reels at the realization, the air leaving my lungs as panic constricts them so tightly I feel, for a moment, like I’m suffocating.

Samuel’s small hand tugs on my shirt and his quiet sobs ground me enough for a shaky breath to sneak in through my parted lips. “It’s okay. She’s going to be fine.”

I force the lie past the lump that’s beginning to form in my throat, but even as I say it, I’m unsure if I’m trying to comfort Sammy or myself. Shaking, I stand and turn toward the nightstand, where the landline is waiting on the charger. I snatch it, and quickly kneel back down, tucking Samuel against my chest as I dial the three numbers I’ve always dreaded needing to use.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a female voice, strong and certain, crackles over the line.

“It’s my mom, I need an ambulance!” I rattle off our address, trying my best to remain calm as I answer the throng of questions she quickly spews over the static. She ensures me that help is on the way, but her promise does nothing to soothe my nerves as I drop my hand back to my mother’s fragile wrist and count out the unsteady beats of her pulse. The operator can say anything she wants…it won’t change the reality of the situation unfolding in front of me. My mother is dying.

“The paramedics are almost there, sweetheart. I need you to open the door for them.” The woman’s voice snaps me out of my trance, and in the distance, I can hear the faint sound of a siren growing louder.

“I—I can’t leave her.” My objection is weak, and it’s nearly impossible to keep the tears stinging my eyes from spilling over.

“They can’t help her if they can’t get inside. You’re almost done,” she counters, another promise she should know better than to make. This won’t end until…

“Fire truck?” Samuel mumbles around his thumb, his curls brushing my chin as he looks hopefully toward the red lights flashing outside of the bedroom window. I need to move, but my legs are still cemented to the floor underneath me, my fingers wound tightly around my mother’s cooling skin. I’ll only be gone for a few seconds.

“Just a few seconds,” I whisper, forcing myself to move. With the phone to my ear and Samuel in my arms, I run to the front door and slip the lock out of place, yanking on the heavy metal until it slides soundlessly open. “She’s in here, please hurry!”

The night is cold, the chill in the air causing goosebumps as men rush up the sidewalk, following my instructions as I numbly direct them down the hallway.

Strangers. I’m leaving her in the hands of strangers.

I drop the phone, uncaring as the plastic splinters at my feet, and move to follow them, stopped only by a large hand that is quick to clasp my shoulder.

“We should give them some room to work.” When I look back, an officer, dressed in a navy uniform so dark it leaves him one with the night, is standing behind me, a solemn look on his face.

“She needs me, I have to—” My sentence breaks as the paramedic, who should be inside saving my mother, appears beside me, the quick shake of his head shattering my heart.

Dead. She’s dead?

The officer’s face softens with sympathy as he watches the recognition ring across my features, the hand on my shoulder tightening as I sway unsteadily on my feet. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you come and have a seat in my car?”

“N-no…I—I was only gone for a few seconds…” I whisper, unable to wrap my head around the reality attempting to drown me. A loud sob rips from my throat, and I sway again, my knees buckling beneath me. I crumple. “It was just a few seconds.”

The officer kneels beside me, his arms wrapping around my shoulders as if he’s afraid that I’ll collapse further in on myself, while the paramedic begins to lift Samuel out of my arms.

Screaming. Who’s screaming?

My eyes jump to Samuel, but his lips are pressed into a tight line, his large eyes full of fear as he stares back at me, mortified. It’s me. I’m screaming.

My chest is tight—too tight—as the officer helps me to my feet. I can’t breathe, can’t think. I’m panicking, my breath coming in uneven, rasped breaths that make my head spin. I bend forward, bile rushing up my throat as my dinner spills from my lips, the food slapping unpleasantly against the deck as I heave uncontrollably. I can’t breathe.

Why did I leave her alone? This is my fault.

My fault.

My fault.

My fault.

My fault.

I blink and draw in a sharp breath as the memory recedes, leaving a large ache in its wake that has me shivering, despite the warmth of the city bus. I pull my thin jacket tighter around me, and clutch my resume to my chest as thunder crackles overhead, rattling the roof of the bus. It’s raining, storm clouds darkening the already black sky, and the wind shakes the bus so violently that it jostles on its wheels. Maybe it’ll lighten up before my stop?

Thunder claps overhead, taunting me as the storm rages on just past my window, rain pelting the glass as sheets pour down from the sky. It’s late, the bus all but devoid of passengers as we head toward the last stop of the night, those that remain onboard grumbling to themselves about the horrible weather. A shitty ending to a shitty day.

My breath fogs the glass as I run my hands along my legs, trying to work out some of the soreness that lingers deep within the muscles. On my way into the city this morning, the promise of going home with a job at the end of the day sweetened the journey, distracting my mind from the pain of walking all those miles in shoes that stopped fitting a few years ago. Now, with no job to keep the negativity at bay, I can’t stop my mind from replaying old choices and cursing the way that my life is turning out.

“Last stop, everyone off,” the driver calls. He shoves the door open and the rain-scented air swarms in, the fresh scent masking the musky odor of the large cabin. Men and women grunt as they shuffle toward the front of the bus, and I stand, pulling my purse over my shoulder and tucking my resume beneath my jacket. As I step toward the door, I pull up my hood and scan the bus stop outside, momentarily contemplating camping out until the rain lightens until I see the homeless man and his heroin pipe already taking up residence on the bench. His grimy smile finds me as I jump off the last step, my nerves sparking to life as I dash down the street with my chin to my chest. I’m soaked before I’m halfway down the block, my shoes squelching with the water they’re drowning in as the wind whips around me, a frigid blast that weaves through the fibers of my clothing until my teeth chatter uncontrollably. I don’t slow down. Not until my house comes into view.

It’s small, a single-story with two bedrooms, one bath, and a muddy, unfenced backyard. The siding is faded, an ugly grayish hue that leads me to believe it was once painted to match the sky, and the gutters hang lopsided and crooked along the roof. I run up the cement steps, and pull open the rusted door, my fingers fumbling for the light switch as I step through the threshold. It’s not my home…and it never will be.

I pull off my socks and shoes, and peel out of my soaked jacket, frowning down at the ruined sheet of paper still pressed against my chest.

“What a fucking waste,” I mutter, crumpling it and dropping it to the floor with my other soaked items.

Stifling a yawn, I shuffle down the hall into the kitchen, moving quietly as I pull open the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water and the lunch meat. I tiptoe around the small space, all too aware of Samuel asleep in the next room, and make myself a sandwich before I plop down at the dining room table to eat.

“Brielle, is that you?” a groggy voice calls. I pause mid-bite and watch as my father walks into the room scratching at his chin, his gray hair appearing greasy in the white kitchen light. “How did your working interview at the hospital go?”

I try to conceal my frown as I take a sip of water, unsure of how I’m going to respond. Dad has been working his ass off trying to support us since Mom died six years ago, leaving a mountain of debt in her wake. He works such long hours at the warehouse that there are days I won’t even see him in passing. How am I supposed to tell him that he’s still stuck being the sole provider for our family? “I made enough to cover our next grocery bill.”

“Don’t stall, Bri,” he scolds, pulling out the chair beside me and sitting down. A thick brow raises above his hazel eyes, and I sigh, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

“I…didn’t get the job,” I murmur, biting into my sandwich as his relaxed face scrunches into a scowl.

“I thought your professors said you were a shoo-in for the position? Didn’t the formal interview go well?” The accusation lingering beneath his question makes me flinch.

“The formal interview went great, and so did the working interview today, I just—”

“You just what? I don’t understand what happened.”

“I just didn’t get selected! There were other candidates there that had more schooling, training, and work experience than I do. There are more nursing students than there are jobs right now. I’m sorry.”

My words settle in the silent room, my face heated with embarrassment as an unidentifiable emotion filters across my father’s face. I didn’t do enough. Dad is doing everything he can to keep us afloat, and I can’t even manage to get a job.

My father rubs the back of his neck, his other hand reaching out to clasp mine. “I’m sorry, Bri, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m just tired. Work’s been forcing a lot of overtime on us, and I haven’t been getting enough sleep.”

“It’s okay,” I mumble, forcing a smile to my lips as I pull my hand away from his. I gesture toward the hall, feigning a yawn as I stretch. “You should get back to bed, I’m about to call it a night anyway. I want to make sure that I’m at the library first thing tomorrow morning so I can search for more job postings.”

“Atta girl, you’ll get the next one, just wait. Goodnight, honey.” He pushes himself up and away from the table, yawning as he leaves.

I watch him go, no longer hungry enough to finish eating. Standing, I grab a paper towel and wrap my sandwich with it, placing it in the fridge for later before heading down the hall toward the bathroom. I shut the door behind me, peel off my scrubs, and hang them over the bathtub before turning to face the mirror above the sink. My exhausted reflection stares back at me, the bags underneath my eyes aging me well past my twenty-four years, their normally hazel color bloodshot and red-rimmed from the lack of sleep. The lighting above me washes out my pale complexion, but the freckles sprinkled across my cheeks and nose are still dark, despite the lack of sunlight I’ve been getting. I guess I’d consider myself pretty if I cared at all about the way that I looked.

I shrug, and pull my light brown waves into a messy bun at the top of my head, turning on the cold water and using it to wash my face. I brush my teeth, pee, and get dressed into the oversized T-shirt and shorts I keep stashed underneath the sink before heading back out to the living room.

When we first moved here after Mom died, Dad tried to convince me to share the master bedroom with Samuel. I know he felt bad about the downgrade in our living situation, but Sammy was still a toddler—taking naps throughout the day and going to bed early in the evening—so I opted to sleep in the living room to keep from throwing off his sleep schedule. It was a rough adjustment period for me, learning to live without a mother or any privacy, but I managed. It’s been so many years at this point that I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to stretch out on a mattress. Almost.

Bending down, I grab my quilt and pillow from the box underneath the side table and drop onto the couch, exhausted. I roll onto my side, facing away from the room, and close my heavy eyes, leaning into the fatigue that quickly advances on me. I know I should be planning, thinking of the next steps I’ll need to take to try to secure my future, but my thoughts are too jumbled, my pillow too comfortable. After such a long day, I’m powerless and far too willing to succumb to the sleep that quickly takes me.