Yours Truly (Part of Your World, #2)(21)

Dearest Briana,

While we’re on the topic of insufficient apologies, a story for you if I may.

I have three sisters, Jewel, Jill, and Jane. And yes, my parents named all of us with J names. My brother is Jeremiah, my mom is Joy. Please do not hold any of this against me.

Jewel is a tattoo artist. She owns a parlor in St. Paul. She’s very gifted.

A few years ago I lost a bet with her. If I lost, I had to let her give me a tattoo of her choosing.

I don’t have any tattoos. I’ve always been too afraid to commit to something so permanent. But Jewel is amazing at what she does, so I thought she’d give me something profoundly beautiful, an everlasting imprint that I’d cherish. Something I never knew I needed to carry with me through life.

She gave me a tiny lawn mower on my chest next to a small patch of shaved chest hair.



I cackled.

I laughed so hard I think I scared the cat in the other room.

It was sort of surprising how funny Jacob was. He seemed so uptight. But then I realized that it was probably the anxiety that made him come off that way. I felt like there was a lesson here about not judging books by their cover or something…

I read on.

The tattoo has since been lasered off, which cost me eight hundred dollars and was quite painful. She refused to apologize. Something about stupid games and stupid prizes?

If Jewel had lost, she had to shave her head. She shaved her head anyway. She’s always wanted to, apparently, so my losing was a foregone conclusion. I should have known after a lifetime of experience that I am not capable of outsmarting the women in my family—which I suppose was the lesson.

I think I would have enjoyed the tiny horse.

Sincerely,

Jacob



That was it. No more letter.

I was starting to wish I had his number—well, I did and I didn’t. Part of the fun was the letter thing. But then it was over so fast. Just a couple of minutes and then nothing for like a whole day. I wondered if I would have this much fun talking to him on the phone or texting him. I bet I would.

Benny was still sleeping. I had to wake him up for dinner and do his dialysis, but I decided to wait so I could write Jacob back really quick. If I didn’t deliver a letter tomorrow, it would be longer until I got one from him again.

I was about midway done when Benny came dragging into the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he asked, sounding so out of it I wondered if he’d even understand the answer.

He looked like a sleepwalker. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. A gray wrinkled T-shirt and checkered pajama bottoms. He needed to shave.

I’d known moving him here wasn’t going to be a quick fix, but I was hoping he’d be doing a little better by now. He was taking his medications. At least he was this week. I’d been handing them to him myself. And he was back with his therapist now that I was here to make sure he went. She said he’d missed several weeks leading up to his ER visit, which explained a lot.

He wasn’t alone anymore, and he was in a safe place. I was doing all the right things for him. But I wanted a sign that he was still in there. That some of this, any of this, was working. Even a little.

I cleared my throat and looked away from his haggard body. “I’m writing a letter.”

He dropped into a chair at the kitchen counter.

I set down my pen. “Hey, what do you think about watching a movie tonight?”

He didn’t answer, just stared into the kitchen.

“Benny?”

He didn’t reply.

I reached over and put a hand on his wrist. “Hey, let’s go for a short walk after dialysis. Just around the block. Yeah?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Just…stop nagging me,” he whispered.

I had to swallow the lump that bolted to my throat.

There was this mother who came into my ER once. She’d ridden in on the same ambulance as her son after he made a suicide attempt. We weren’t able to save him.

When I came out to tell her the news, she was so…resigned. Like she’d known this was coming for ages. Like she’d already cried about it and grieved him and this just made it official. She looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and said in the most sincere way I’d ever heard, “I did everything I could.”

And it terrified me that now I knew what that meant.

There was nothing else I could do for my brother. There was nothing else to pull from my arsenal except for pleas to get him up and moving. He was already in therapy and on depression meds. I couldn’t get him into an inpatient program unless he agreed to go, which he wouldn’t. He couldn’t be forced unless he was a danger to others or himself—which he wasn’t. I didn’t worry that Benny was going to hurt himself. Not directly, anyway. He was just going to give up on trying to stay alive.

He didn’t want to live in this body. Not broken the way it was.

I knew many, many patients with disabilities and chronic illnesses who lived their lives with dignity and joy and purpose. I knew people in end-stage renal failure, just like Benny, who didn’t even slow down. They took vacations and raised their families and had fun and made memories and plans. Jacob was right about dialysis. It was a gift. It gave you time. And I had hoped that Benny would get there, that he’d accept his new normal and find a way to keep loving life. But he wasn’t. He was withering. It had all happened too fast and taken too much from him. He couldn’t pivot. And the dialysis was the constant reminder that the worst possible thing had happened. Every time he sat down for it, he lost more of himself. Only a kidney could change this in any fast and meaningful way. And I couldn’t get him a kidney. I couldn’t even give him hope.