Page 7

NILS

The driveway at my parents’ house has a crack in it. A crack that is slowly turning into a crater. Closing my door, I look around at the rest with a more critical eye. Dad and I poured it nearly a decade ago, so I suppose it had a good run. Frowning, I look back down at the crack under my feet. It’s a little bit raised, which makes me worry it could be a tripping hazard, and with Mom using a walking stick most of the time, it’s definitely not safe. There’s a reason we paved the drive in the first place, instead of leaving it wild like mine.

Reaching into the truck bed to lift out the stool my sister asked me to make, I approach the house and tap my knuckles against the door. Without waiting, I open it and head inside. It smells like meatloaf. I stifle a groan of disappointment. I hate meatloaf. I’m pretty sure the only person who could make meatloaf palatable would be Oliver, and his skills would be wasted even trying.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, not yelling but raising my voice enoughfor her to hear me over the sounds of cooking. The thump of little feet accompanies a shriek of delight. I’ve only just managed to slip off my boots and place the stool on the floor before a whippet-thin body launches itself at me. I catch my niece under the armpits and swing her up, careful not to knock her head against the ceiling or her feet into any of Mom’s figurines on the sideboard.

“Nilly!” Jasmine squeals, wiggling her fingers into my armpit.

I’m not sure who is responsible for teaching her about tickling, but I’d like to have a private word with them. I laugh a little bit, and she grins maniacally. I’m not ticklish, but if she doesn’t get a reaction, she’ll just keep digging at you until she finds the spot. Giving up on it, she presses her tiny palms into my cheeks to squish my lips together and gives me a kiss. Hoisting her more firmly up onto my hip, I move further into the house. She’s too big to carry around anymore, and if I do it too long, my back starts to complain. But she’s my sister’s only kid, and she sprouts up faster than a weed. I’m not ready for her to grow up or get bigger.

“How are my chickens?” she asks, kicking her feet, one heel drumming against my butt. “Have you been feeding them?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I agree. She nods, pointing a finger imperiously down the hall.

“Let’s go see Mama.”

Dutifully, I carry her back to the dining area, where my sister is sitting at the table, paper spread around her. She checks over our parents’ finances every month, balancing the budgetand making sure they remain firmly in the green. When she glances up at me, the look in her eye lets me know this past month was red. Sighing, I set Jasmine down. I’m not surprised, given the number of doctor’s visits Mom needed.

“Ba-a-ad?” I ask and then take a deep, calming breath. Talking in front of my family is always harder than it should be. Lucy shakes her head.

“No. Dad took less work, though, because”—she waves her hand toward the kitchen, where I can hear the clang of kitchen utensils—“of her appointments. They’ll be able to make it up this month, hopefully. They’re on track to, anyway.”

She ducks her chin, finger following a line on the bank statement as she makes a note on the paper to her right. My sister, whose primary job is a stay-at-home mother, is a jack-of-all-trades. She’s a chef, an accountant, and a schoolteacher all wrapped into one. Given that she’s three years older than me, it’s clear she sucked all the brains up and left none for me.

I slip into the kitchen, where Mom is standing at the stove, putting together lunch. Her cane is resting at the end of the counter, far out of reach. Shaking my head, I grab it and bring it closer. I bend and kiss the top of her shaved head, the low silver hairs tickling my lips. She pats my butt.

“Just in time for lunch,” she compliments, looking up at me.

I don’t remember her being so small as a kid. She’d felt larger than life and twice as frightening back then. Now, every time I walk into this house, I’m reminded of how old they’re becoming and worried about what that means. Unlike my sister, who had Jasmine young, our parents didn’t have kids until theirlate thirties. They’re older than the parents of most people my age.

“Smells good,” I lie. Oliver gave me the leftovers from lunch yesterday, so at least I’ll have that to look forward to once I get home. I’ll be able to wash the taste of meatloaf out of my mouth.

“Tell me about work,” Mom requests, shuffling down the counter without using her cane. Shaking my head, I move it closer again. She flaps a hand to shoo me away. “I don’t need that thing when I’m at the counter, boy. Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Stu-u-born,” I comment, which makes her smile. Inhaling, I slow down and speak carefully. “Work is good.”

“You’ll have to ask Shiloh Lepage whether you could bring Jazzy out on the boat one day. She still asks about it, and I think she’s probably old enough now.”

I nod. I’m pretty sure Shiloh was a lot younger the first time his family brought him out on a haul. I’m also pretty sure he was a lot calmer of a kid than my niece. Jasmine will likely do good for an hour, maybe two, before she’s bored, cold, and hungry. There’s no way she’d last a full day.

“Maybe this su-u-u-ummer.”

Goddamnit. My teeth click together as I snap my jaw closed. The stutter is always bad around my family, which makes visits painful for everyone. Nerves and stress worsen it, which I suppose explains the problem, though why I’m nervous around my own damn family is anyone’s guess. Funnily enough, I rarely stutter when I’m on the boat with Shiloh and Oliver.

“That would be nice. Your dad will be home soon. He’s outat the Millers’—burst pipe and a touch of flooding. They’ve got a new baby, you know. Ugly little thing, but then, you were, too.”

I snort, Mom’s mouth twisted into a humorous little smirk. She likes to think she’s old enough now to say whatever comes to her mind. More often than not, the things that seem to come to her mind are rude. She gives my hip another pat and a firm nudge.

“Go sit with your sister. Help her babysit. She needs a break.”

Nudging the cane closer and ignoring the look this earns me, I rejoin my sister in the dining room. Jasmine is seated on the floor, playing with the dolls my parents keep here for her. Lucy, head propped up on her palm as she stares down at the bank statements, does look like she is in need of a break. Unfortunately, I’m not equipped to help her with the accounting. Lowering myself to the floor, I reach for a stuffed dog. Icanhelp her with babysitting.

Jasmine and I play house with the dolls until lunch is ready, and it’s not until we’re halfway through eating that Dad comes home. Lucy’s husband works as a nurse at the city hospital; he has to commute and frequently covers weekends. I don’t see him very often, and when I do, he usually looks haggard and worn, like he spends the day in a boxing ring and not the emergency department. I suppose there might not be much of a difference between the two.

Jasmine wants to sit on my lap while we’re eating and pouts when Lucy scolds her for it, telling her she’s a big girl and can sit on her own. I keep my mouth shut, even though I privately wishshe would sit on my lap. One day, she’ll be a teenager and, by all accounts, will be showing love to nobody, least of all her uncle. I want to grab all the moments I can and hold on tight.

Before I leave, I talk to Dad about the driveway, making a plan to redo it once the weather warms. Fat snowflakes start falling from the gray sky as we stand outside and inspect the concrete. I look up, frowning. It’s cold, and if we’re in for snow this evening, it’s likely to get colder. Is Oliver’s heat working? Does he have a snow shovel? Now that we put down pavers, he’s got something of a sidewalk, but there haven’t been many storms where the snow has stuck this year. It’s possible he doesn’t have one, and even more possible that he won’t ask to borrow one.