Free Slow Moon Rising by Eva Marie Everson

text to Anise.
    â€œDon’t worry. I called Dad from the parking lot. Told him your car was here. So what gives? You were supposed to come home after practice. At least that’s what Anise said you told her.”
    â€œI thought . . . I meant to. I guess I was so hungry and”—I looked down at my book—“I’ve got to get this book read for school—it’s pretty good, actually—and . . . I guess I just forgot to check the time.”
    Jayme-Leigh sighed in a way that reminded me of Dad. “You forgot.” Her lips formed a thin line.
    I didn’t answer right away. I really couldn’t. There was no excuse worth offering. Oh, I had my reasons, all right. For one, Heather and her tirade left me a little anxious about returning home. But . . . there was something else. Something that every quiet moment at home only made worse.
    I hadn’t talked to anyone about my life’s complication, not even Avery. Hadn’t told her what had happened right before Mom died. Because, honestly, what if Mom had been wrong about what she told me. She was nearly nuts at the end there, anyway.
    Could I trust the words of a dying woman when little she said made any sense anyway?
    â€œJayme-Leigh, if I ask you something, can we keep it between us?”
    â€œDepends, Ami. I’m not going to keep anything from Dad that I feel he needs to know about you. You’re his daughter.”
    The waitress returned with the coffee and a brand-new glass of ice and Coke. She whisked away my old glass and the trash of my straw’s wrapping, and said, “Anything else, just holler.”
    Jayme-Leigh sighed. I knew why; she hated words like holler . But she plastered on a smile and said, “We’ll be sure to do that.” It was about as fake as anything I’d ever seen her do, and I’d seen her do a lot of fake things. Not that she’s a bad person. She’s not. She’s a great sister and an even better doctor. When Mom was sick, Jaymes treated her with the best daughter/doctor care any patient could have asked for. At least, she did when Heather allowed it. But Jayme-Leigh has this way about her that those who know her best can see and those who don’t know her at all—which is mostpeople—can’t. A sort of “I’m above all this” manner that is really just Jayme-Leigh keeping her distance. Sometimes even from family.
    Jayme-Leigh stirred her coffee, took a sip, and said, “Why these kinds of places seem to have the best coffee but the stickiest floors is beyond me.”
    I laughed a little. Not a lot. I had too much other stuff on my mind to find a lot of humor in the moment.
    â€œSo, Ami . . . what? What do you want to tell me? Or ask me?” I figured it didn’t matter if Jayme-Leigh said she’d keep this between sisters or not. What I was about to tell her would, no doubt, be a run-to-Dad piece of information. She’d probably tell me she wasn’t going to say anything, but she’d tell Dad anyway. She’d say, “Don’t tell Ami I’m telling you” and then Dad would promise and actually keep his word.
    Maybe.
    â€œOkay, so here’s the deal, Jaymes. Remember at the end there? When Mom was pretty close to being gone?”
    She wrapped her hands around the brown ceramic mug. The aroma of her coffee had reached my nostrils. I loved the smell of it, and the scent reminded me of Mom. Every morning, hearing the coffeepot gurgle and cough. The rich scent of coffee beans and hazelnut wafting through the house when Dad took a tray of breakfast sweets and caffeine from the kitchen to the master suite. Every morning, until drinking coffee meant spitting up blood.
    â€œOf course I remember.”
    â€œDo people who are dying, like Mom . . . do they sometimes say things that are . . . I