a sip of water. I didn’t want to make her take any medication, even as hot as she was, because I didn’t know how recently she’d had any, or if she’d be mentally clear enough to remember.
But I can almost feel the heat coming off her body when I pull the covers back. We need to get this fever down.
“Nancy,” I whisper, giving her shoulder a little shake.
“Mm?” Her eyes drift open a tiny crack, then she smacks her lips, and sits up so suddenly that I step back. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” she says, shuffling around.
It’s not until she tosses a lacy, maroon bra at the side of my head that I realize what she was doing. I even caught the thing. On instinct.
And now I’m left holding a bra with two fingers as Nancy falls back asleep. Each of the cups could hold my whole head, and this is one fact I didn’t know and didn’t need to know.
Forget the painkillers. I’m out. Hopefully Nancy’s fever-addled brain won’t remember this moment.
I wish I could forget it.
With Nancy asleep, I spend the next three hours cleaning up. In the office, Nancy is pretty organized. I haven’t been here often, so I’m not sure if the current state is due to the fact that she hasn’t felt well even before today, or if she’s a lot messier than her sister
After I've scrubbed the dirty dishes, cleaned out the litter box (more dry-heaving), and picked up around the house a bit, I perch on the plastic-covered sofa and manage to find Sports Center on her television.
I doze off, waking when I hear the sound of the front door opening. Patty shuffles in, looking a bit more stooped than last time I saw her, but otherwise almost Nancy’s twin.
“How’s my boy?” she asks as I give her a hug.
I have to lean way down, but she smells familiar, and I remember a time when I hugged Patty with my head only reaching her waist.
“I’m doing well,” I say.
Patty pulls back and gives me a once-over. “You look good. For your age.” She chuckles, and I can only shake my head. “Is she in bed?”
“She is. I didn’t give her any pain medicine. She had a few bottles on the bedside table, but she wasn’t coherent enough to tell me what she’d already taken or when.”
“Thank you for checking on her. I’ll be fine. When are we going to see you again at the ranch?”
Patty no longer works there but always manages to show up for dinner or a visit when I come into town.
“I’ll be there this weekend,” I tell her. “I just spoke with Mom today.”
She smiles and pats my arm. “Well, then. You just might see me there. If Nancy’s feeling better, maybe I’ll drag her along. Now, get on home. You clearly need more beauty rest.”
When I arrive back home a few hours later, the house seems quieter than usual. It’s always quiet. Silent, really. Perched above Austin in West Lake Hills, there is little noise pollution. The city lights are in view, but it’s quiet. It should feel peaceful. I thought that’s what I wanted.
And yet I feel restless.
More and more lately, the silence has felt like a living, breathing thing. A presence in the house, accompanying me everywhere I go. I’ve started leaving the television on or letting my smart home play one of the stations I like.
I’ve started thinking about selling the place and moving somewhere I can see other people, hear sounds of people moving around. Proof of life.
Growing up on a ranch, we didn’t have the sound of cars or planes or any other things. But it was never silent. The wind, the horses stomping their feet, the cattle lowing. Ranch hands talking, doors slamming, my mama singing Ella Fitzgerald or Patsy Cline. Last time I came home, she was singing Katy Perry and I almost keeled over right there in the kitchen.
“What?” Mama had said. “The girl’s got talent behind the doe eyes and her you know whats.”
She had moved her hands over her chest and out, the universal sign for breasts, and then I did keel over, laughing as I clutched the kitchen island until Mama started snapping a dish towel at my behind.
An ache starts behind my ribs as I get ready for bed. I can’t explain exactly why, but family is on my heart. Specifically, my lack thereof. My life is amazing. I’ve accomplished a lot. I have people who