Free Slow Moon Rising by Eva Marie Everson Page A

dunno . . .”
    â€œCrazy?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOf course. Mom’s condition, the meds she was on, all of it could have led her to talk out of her head.” She seemed to study me. “Did Mom say something that confused you?”
    I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?”
    Did I? I wasn’t sure. Even with Jayme-Leigh, who I was the closest to. She and I were so much alike. We looked alike. Same dark features. Nearly the same hair color. But more than that, our temperament is the same. Both quiet. Studious to what is important to us. Jayme-Leigh, medicine. Me, dance.
    â€œNot really,” I finally said. I took a long swig of my Coke. “I’m sure she was just . . .”—I shrugged—“affected by the medicine and the timing. She was throwing up pretty bad that night.”
    â€œWhat night?”
    â€œDad had to go to the hospital. He got called in. I don’t remember why, but Mom was sleeping and he thought he’d only be gone for a short while.”
    â€œHospice wasn’t there?”
    I shook my head. “No. Just Mom and me. We . . . we didn’t know how close it all was, you know.”
    She didn’t answer. She just drank her coffee and stared at the tabletop.
    â€œMom woke up, started vomiting blood again. Started talking wild stuff.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œWhat Dad had shown me.”
    She reached across the table, laid her hand on my arm. “Why didn’t you call me, Ames?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    We were quiet until I added, “Lately, Jaymes, I’ve been . . . having some bad dreams. Forgetting things. Feeling angry about nothing. Everything. Do you think it’s because of Mom dying and all?”
    And all . . . like what I saw. What I heard. Not just that night but all the years before. Living with an alcoholic means living with secrets. And secrets are things I couldn’t talk about. Wouldn’t talk about.
    â€œSounds like stress, Ami.” She smiled at me—so gently—and took a sip of her coffee, keeping her hands wrapped around the mug. She rested her elbows on the table, the cup of coffee under her chin. “You’ve been through a lot. We all have, but especially you. You lost Mom when you needed her most and then . . . Dad bringing Anise home.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Maybe.”
    â€œLet me ask you this,” she said. “Are you feeling guilty at all?”
    â€œGuilty? What do I have to feel guilty about?”
    â€œYou like Anise, don’t you.”
    It wasn’t a question, and there was no reason to lie. This, after all, was not Heather I was speaking with. “I do. She’s making Dad happy and she’s nice.” I met my sister’s eyes with my own. “Heather is making me crazy, though. She was at the house before I left for dance.”
    â€œI know. Dad told me.”
    â€œWhat’s her problem, anyway?”
    Jayme-Leigh patted my arm before returning her hand to her coffee mug. “She loved Mom. I think she feels a sense of loyalty to her.”
    â€œI loved Mom,” I said. Raw emotion took flight inside my stomach. “I’m just as loyal.”
    â€œIt’s different with Heather though, Ames. She’s such a busybody.” She smiled to soften the blow against our sister. “Always trying to make everyone’s life perfect. This—none of this—fit in with her plans. Mom dying. Dad remarrying. You liking Anise. Any of us liking Anise, for that matter.”
    â€œYeah. I suppose so.”
    Jayme-Leigh hunkered down toward the edge of the table. “Ami, are you experiencing any depression?”
    I nodded. “Sometimes. But aren’t teenage girls supposed to feel depressed?”
    She didn’t answer, just asked, “Worse around your