Free Mercy by Sarah L. Thomson Page A

if the smoke from the cigarette had already corroded her vocal cords. “Like you don’t care.”
    â€œI’m the one who’s dying, Haley.” He could have said it impatiently. But there was sympathy in his face, gentleness in his voice. Too much. Haley felt her throat closing up with that old, sharp pain that meant tears would be on the way soon if she didn’t change the subject quickly. “I pretty much have to care. I’m just . . .” He put a hand out and flicked his fingers into the air, as if brushing something insubstantial away. “Not going to cry about it every minute. What do you expect me to do?”
    â€œTry.”
    She whispered it. Jake frowned and leaned forward a little, as if he hadn’t quite heard her.
    Haley leaned forward too, her hands on her knees. Her heart began to beat a little quicker. “You could, you could talk to the doctors some more. You could—” Jake was shaking his head. Haley’s fingers were pinching her knees tightly. She’d have bruises in the morning. Right now she hardly noticed. “There might be something you could do!” Jake looked as if he felt sorry for her, and the idea put an edge in her voice, made it louder. He shouldn’t feel sorry for her, he should
listen
to her; she was
right
. “If you went back to the hospital, tried some new stuff, if you just
tried—
”
    â€œI did try. I tried for a long time. Now I’m done.”
    Haley froze. She couldn’t move. Except for her heart, which still beat out a frantically quick tattoo against her ribs.
    â€œI’m sorry. Really. To put you through all this. But—you remember my mom, Haley? You remember how she died?”
    Aunt Nell’s face on the hospital pillow. Her lips and eyelids an ashy blue. Her skin as pale as her wispy, white-blonde hair.
    â€œFor a year, all we talked about was her health. Or lack thereof. The last year of my mom’s life, all we talked about was tests and medicine and how many milligrams of this and how many milligrams of that. For a
year
. The last thing I said to her was, ‘The next transfusion’s at eight-thirty tomorrow.’ That’s the last thing I said to my mother. I just don’t want to do that again.”
    He picked up the unlit cigarette and tapped it restlessly on the edge of the ashtray.
    â€œYou can get as mad as you want,” he told Haley. “But remember, when you’re done being angry, I’ll still be dying.”

    Haley didn’t talk much for the rest of the day. Somehow she felt as if she needed to keep everything quiet. As if there was an unexploded bomb inside her and any loud sound, any sudden movement, would set off the explosion.
    The bomb had started ticking with Jake’s words.
I’ll still be dying
.
    She stayed silent all through dinner. Nobody could carry on a conversation at the table anyway. Not with Eddie trying as hard as he could to wear most of his food as body art.
    She headed up to her room after the meal was over, her feet in thick socks noiseless on the stairs. She was so quiet that Elaine and her father, still in the dining room, didn’t hear her.
    But she could hear them.
    â€œ . . . really don’t know what do with her.” Elaine was speaking. “Half the time she doesn’t say a word, or she’s so mad at Eddie . . . treats me like the evil stepmother . . .”
    And then her dad’s voice, heavy and resigned. “I’ll talk to her.”
    So now she was a problem to be talked to, was she? Well, he couldn’t talk to her if she wasn’t in the house. Haley backed up quietly. Kitchen, back door. Shoes, where were her shoes? Elaine’s pumps and her running shoes, Dad’s clay-splattered work boots, Eddie’s tiny sneakers. There were so many shoes here, nobody could ever find anything. All this clutter, all over the house; no wonder all her stuff