15
In February, my scans came back better.
Not cured. Not a miracle. Better.
The doctor smiled in that careful way doctors do when they’ve seen too many people get their hopes crushed. “This is encouraging,” he said. Fern sat beside me.
Her hand squeezed mine so hard it hurt. Outside the clinic, she stopped on the sidewalk. She stared up at the sky.
It was gray. It wasn’t dramatic. But Fern looked like she’d never seen it before.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “With what?” I asked. “With hope,” she said.
I laughed once. “That’s fair,” I said. Fern’s eyes filled.
Then she laughed too. It was the first time I’d heard her laugh without caution. 16
Hope doesn’t fix a family.
It doesn’t erase years. But it gives you time to make different choices. When we got home that day, Fern went into the kitchen and started cleaning.
Not because it needed cleaning. Because joy had nowhere to go in her body yet. I walked up behind her and touched her shoulder.
“Fern,” I said. She turned. Her face was wet.
“I’m so happy,” she said, voice breaking. “And I’m so scared.”
Fern’s hands curled into fists. “What if we get used to this,” she whispered, “and then it goes away?”
“That’s the risk of loving anything,” I said.
“I don’t know if I’m good at risk,” she admitted. “You drove four hours on a hunch,” I reminded her. “You’re better at it than you think.”
Fern stared at me.
Then she stepped forward and hugged me. Hard. Like she was trying to anchor me to the earth.
17
A week later, I called Calvin back. Not because I’d forgiven him. Because I wanted to see if he could be different when time wasn’t threatening to run out.
He answered on the first ring. “Bea!” he said, too loud. “Hey!
I’ve been—”
“Cal,” I interrupted. “If you want to talk, you come here. You sit at my table.
You look Fern in the eye. You tell the truth.”
Silence. Then Calvin exhaled.
“Okay,” he said. Two days later, he showed up. Not in a rush.
Not with an agenda. He brought a bag of groceries. Fern didn’t smile.
I didn’t hug him. We sat at the table. Calvin’s eyes flicked between us.
“I’m not good at this,” he admitted. Fern’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s the first true thing you’ve said,” she murmured.
Calvin flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said. Fern stared.
“For what?” she asked. Calvin swallowed. “For acting like you were… nothing,” he said.
Fern’s breath hitched. Calvin looked at me. “And I’m sorry,” he added, “for laughing.
I didn’t want it to be real.”
“Why?” I asked. “Because if it was real,” he said slowly, “then I had to admit I wasn’t there.”
Fern’s hands clenched. “And why weren’t you?” she asked.
Calvin looked down. “Because I’ve always assumed you two would handle it,” he said. The sentence was honest.
It was also disgusting. “We weren’t supposed to,” she said. Calvin’s eyes lifted.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Fern exhaled. “I don’t forgive you yet,” she said.
Calvin nodded. It wasn’t a resolution. But it was a start.
18
Spring came. The maple tree filled with leaves again. The house smelled like open windows.
Fern started bringing small things from her apartment. A mug. A blanket.
A photo. She didn’t announce it. She just moved pieces of herself into the space like she was learning to exist where she wasn’t temporary.
One day, she brought an old shoebox. Fern set it on the table. “It’s… stuff,” she said.
She opened it. Inside were letters. Old notes.
A couple of photos. And at the bottom, a folded piece of paper. Fern pulled it out.
It was a drawing. A child’s drawing. Two stick figures holding hands in front of a little house.
One figure had a sailor hat. One had long hair. Fern’s voice was barely audible.
“I drew it when you left for boot camp,” she said. My throat tightened. “You kept it?” I asked.
“I kept everything,” she admitted. The confession made me ache. Because I realized how much of our family’s love had been stored in Fern.
Not because she was sentimental. Because no one else bothered. I reached across the table and touched the drawing.
“It’s us,” I whispered. “It was always you,” she said. “Even when you were gone.”
“I’m here,” I said.
“I know,” she whispered. 19
In late May, my mother called again. This time, her voice was smaller.
“Beatrice,” she said, “can we talk?”
Fern watched me. I put the call on speaker. My mother exhaled.
“I’ve been thinking,” she began. The phrase sounded familiar. Like she was trying on a new script.
“I don’t like how this has gone,” she said. “That makes two of us,” I replied. She ignored that.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she said. Fern’s posture stiffened. My mother continued.
“I want to come by,” she said. “I want to… help.”
The word help came out like it hurt. I stared at the phone.
“Why now?” I asked. Then my mother said, quietly, “Because your father told me you had a better scan.”
Hope made her want access again. Fern’s face went hard.
“You didn’t want to help when it was scary,” Fern said into the speaker. My mother gasped. “Fern,” she snapped, reflexive.
Fern didn’t back down. “You didn’t want to help when she asked,” Fern continued. “You wanted her to be fine so you didn’t have to feel anything.”
The room went silent.
My mother’s breath sounded sharp through the phone. “How dare you,” she began. I cut in.
“Stop,” I said. “If you call her disrespectful for telling the truth, you can keep your distance.”
My mother went quiet. Then, softly, she said, “I don’t know how to do this.”
The sentence surprised me.
But it was a confession. Fern’s eyes widened. I took a breath.
“Then learn,” I said. My mother swallowed. “Can I come by?” she asked again.
I looked at Fern. Fern’s face was tense. But she nodded once.
“Okay,” I said. “But you don’t come to argue. You come to listen.”
My mother’s voice wavered.
20
My mother arrived the next weekend. She didn’t come in like a storm this time. She came in like someone who was afraid of breaking something.
She stood in the doorway and looked around the living room. My mother’s eyes flicked to our joined hands. “I brought… cookies,” she said.
She held up a tin. It was the kind of thing she used to do when we were kids and someone was upset: sugar as a substitute for apology. I took the tin.
“Thanks,” I said. My mother sat in the chair. She didn’t perch like a queen.
She sat like a tired woman. For a long moment, none of us spoke. Then my mother’s voice came out thin.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “About what?” I asked. “How alone you felt,” she admitted.
My chest tightened. Fern stared at her. My mother’s eyes filled.
“I thought if we didn’t make a big deal,” she said, “it wouldn’t be a big deal.”
“That’s not how illness works,” Fern said. My mother flinched. I watched her.
I wanted to be angry. I was. But I was also tired.
And tired people sometimes accept imperfect truths because perfect ones are too heavy. My mother looked at Fern. “I’m sorry,” she said.
The apology didn’t erase anything. But it existed. She didn’t say “it’s okay.”
She just nodded.
My mother’s gaze went back to me. “And you,” she said, voice breaking, “I’m sorry.”
The words landed like rain on dry ground. Not enough to fix the drought.
But enough to remind you the sky still works. “I don’t need you to be perfect,” I said quietly. My mother’s shoulders shook.
“I don’t know how to be different,” she whispered. “Try,” Fern said. My mother nodded.
“I will,” she said. And for the first time, I believed she might. Not because she’d become a new person overnight.
Because she’d finally stopped pretending she already was. 21
That summer, I retired. Not because I wanted to.
Because the Navy decided my body had done enough. The ceremony was small. A few coworkers.
A plaque. A handshake. Calvin came.
My parents came. Fern stood beside me the whole time, her hand on my elbow like a steady pulse. When the commanding officer said, “Lieutenant Commander Carter has served with distinction,” I felt a familiar tightness in my chest.
Pride. Grief. Relief.
Afterward, a woman from my unit hugged me and whispered, “What’s next?”
Fern’s eyes were shining. But for once, not knowing didn’t feel like falling. It felt like open space.
22
Two months later, I signed another document. Not a will. A deed.
I put Fern’s name on the house while I was still
