“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” Betsy had said to Jenna on the phone the day before.
“No, it’s not like that. I’m asking you before I tell them anything. But I have to give them an answer soon. Like . . . today. This is . . . Oh, Betsy, please say yes.”
Betsy walked out into the backyard and breathed in the warm morning air as the two weeks swirled in her mind.
“Look, I understand if it’s not going to work,” Jenna said. “I’m sure I can figure something else out.”
Betsy exhaled. “Of course they can stay here. That’s not the problem. I’m just . . . I’m trying to understand you. It’s a quick decision, dropping the girls off with barely a heads-up. Have you thought this through—your job, money, bills while you’re gone? What about—?”
“Betsy, I’ve thought about it from every angle. Trust me. You don’t have to worry about me. Or the girls. I know I used to be . . . irresponsible, but I’m not now. I can’t afford to be—not with two kids who are stuck with me as their mom.”
“They’re not stuck with you.”
“You know what I mean. They only have me. I have to do things right. And that’s part of the reason why I want to do this retreat. To let them see me pursuing something that matters to me. To see me working toward a goal. I appreciate your concern, but this is something I need to do on my own. Can you let me do that? You’re my sister, my friend. We’re partners, right? Isn’t that what we always said?”
Betsy nodded. “Yeah. We did.”
“It’s not like I’m leaving them with strangers. And as far as kids go, they’re a breeze. They sleep late in the morning, they love Curious George, and they can drink their weight in apple juice.”
Betsy smiled, in spite of her frustration.
“Oh, and Addie has to sleep with her stuffed elephant or she stays awake all night. Don’t forget that.”
Betsy gave a small laugh. “I think we can handle it.”
“It’ll be great. They’ll probably want to stay forever.”
Twenty minutes later, Betsy stood by Jenna’s car, already cranked with the AC blasting. The storm had pushed through quickly, leaving behind a blanket of thick humidity. Kneeling, Jenna hugged the girls tight. “Listen to Aunt Betsy, okay? I want her to tell me how well you’re behaving when I check in later.”
“Will you miss us?” Addie asked.
“Oh yes,” Jenna said. “I will miss you tons. But I’ll take some pretty pictures and when I get back, I’ll need you to tell me if they’re any good. I’ll need your help too.” She poked Walsh gently in the stomach.
Jenna stood and wrapped her arms around Betsy. “Thank you,” she whispered. “And sorry again for the late notice. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Just be safe. Let us know when you get there.”
“I will.” She climbed into the car. “Love you girls,” she called as she ducked her head.
Betsy thought she saw tears in Jenna’s eyes, and her arms ached to hold her little sister one more time. She stepped closer to the car, but when Jenna rolled down her window and turned her face to them, her eyes were dry. A little red, but no tears.
Wet gravel crunched under the tires as Jenna pulled away. Betsy and the girls waved until the car disappeared around the curve of the driveway. Then she put her hands on their backs and guided them up the steps. The afternoon sun was just beginning to peek out from behind the dark clouds.
One afternoon when she was fifteen, Betsy visited her mother’s office and stood in the dim light of the quiet lab, all the other techs gone for the day. Her dad had picked her up from school and dropped her at her mom’s office on his way to the Alys Stephens Center for a symphony performance. She and her mom would pick up Jenna at school in half an hour. Jenna had detention. Again.
Betsy stared at the wall. Faces stared back at her from photographs. Mostly young people, children, babies even. Some were photographed in light moments—laughter, a smile, or at least a hint of one. Playing, working, cooking, living life. But a few were taken toward the end—faces barely suppressing the pain that raged inside them. Eyes full of the knowledge of the truth about their lives.
She scratched the back of her leg with the laces of her tennis shoe, then reached out and touched one of the photos. A teenager wearing a backward ball cap grinned loosely, as if all was right with the world. His arm was flung around the shoulders of a tall girl whose eyes were closed in laughter. “Mom, tell me about him.”
Her mom crossed the room. Her lab took up most of the eleventh floor of the UAB Cancer Research Center. It smelled musty—like damp newspaper or old dirt—with a hard edge of Lysol mixed in. This lab was where really smart people—scientists, doctors, technicians—made groundbreaking discoveries in the field of brain cancer research, and Betsy’s mom was the head of it all. Her black orthopedic shoes padded across the floor, her rumpled white lab coat billowing behind her.
She grazed her fingers across the teenager’s face. “Brian McLaurin,” she said, her voice low and reverent. “He was only seventeen. Bone cancer that spread to his brain. He was a stand-out basketball star on his high school team before the pain started.” She moved to her right and nodded toward the next photo on her “inspiration wall,” as she called it. “Cynthia Graves. Left a young family behind. Juanita Powers, the lead in her middle school play.”
She kept going, calling out the names of each face on her wall. Her mother hadn’t always focused on
