Free Whisper by Phoebe Kitanidis

tragedy? Other than “Um, yeah, school’s going well, thanks.”
    It was Icka, who’d always looked up to Aunt Jane, who seemed to know what to say. The two of them just clicked. Aunt Jane never asked Icka how school was going; they talked about the environment and sexism and world politics, like two adults. Two bleak, lonely, broken adults, but still. It was probably as close to a friendship as Icka was going to get in this life, so I didn’t begrudge her it.
    Besides, the terrible truth was I tried very hard these days not to think about Aunt Jane. I didn’t like to think of her, for the same reason I didn’t want to visit her: What had happened to her absolutely terrified me.
    I drummed my fingers on the counter. Moping about Hearing loss wasn’t improving my mood. I needed a distraction, and maybe I could make myself useful while I was at it. I Listened to see if Mom needed my help with anything. Dishes? Mixing batter? Putting the roses in water? Just give me a task.
    But Mom was silent. She just stood there gazing at the phone, as if she too couldn’t get Aunt Jane out of her mind.
    At last, uncertain, I grabbed the scissors and began snipping stems.
    “Oh, hon!” Mom turned and waved her hand distractedly at me. “I can take care of that. Don’t you want to change out of your costume?” Her eyes darted back to the phone.
    I Listened again. Mom wasn’t acting like herself. Was she really worried about her sister this time? “It’s okay, I’ll just take off the shoe—Ow!” I gasped at the sudden sharp, grating pain at the top of my head.
    Mom pursed her lips. “Another headache?”
    I nodded, still catching my breath.
    “If you want to go lie down, I’ve got things covered here.” As if to illustrate this, she turned away from me, bent over the oven, and pulled out a pan of golden brown cakes. “See? Last batch.”
    “But weren’t we going to decorate those together?”
    She folded her arms. “Dr. Brooks said you should rest if you have a headache.”
    “It doesn’t hurt that bad.” It kind of did, but I wanted to stay and help her in the kitchen. She’d taken the whole afternoon off work to prepare for my party. The least I could do was pitch in.
    Mom must have Heard me, though.
    “You help out every day, Joy,” she said softly. “I hope you know how much I appreciate knowing I can always count on you.” She paused and her brow creased, and for a moment I thought she was about to wish that she could count on Dad and Icka the same way. Instead she said, “Honestly, I think I overestimated the workload here,” Mom said cheerfully. “You’re off the hook!” She started transferring a previous batch of cupcakes from cooling rack to counter. Then she dipped a knife into a Pyrex bowl of pale pink frosting and spread it evenly, expertly, across the first cake.
    “Come on, let me do a few.” I ran to the sink and started soaping up my hands. But the sweet cupcake smells I normally loved were making me want to gag. My headache was getting worse. Muscle tension, that’s all it was, I told myself. Don’t think about Aunt Jane or Icka’s stupid warning.
    “Go on, shoo!” Mom made a waving gesture with her flour-dusted hands. “I can handle a few silly cupcakes. If you don’t feel like lying down,” she added, “why don’t you go thank your father for his lovely gift?”
    “But—” That stopped me. “Dad’s home already? Where is he?”
    She gave me a look.
    “Never mind, dumb question.” Beyond eating and sleeping, Dad spent nearly all his time at home in his home office. He even had his old treadmill set up in there and would, when working on a tough case, clear his head by taking a brisk jog to nowhere. I made a face. “Well, at least let me put these flowers in a vase first.”
    I reached to turn the water on again, but she put her hand over the faucet.
    “I can take care of that.” Was that agitation in Mom’s voice, or was it my imagination?
    I was about to insist,