between us, by the reality of Lewis’s and my relationship. We’re brothers in name only. The connection is hollow.
I drop onto the bed, broken by the weight of everything this means. I was right from the very beginning. No matter what Lewis says about supporting our mom, he only means financial support. I won’t leave her, not when I’m the only one who can remind her who she is.
I have no choice in my future. I never have. The past few days have been a fairy tale, a fantasy not meant for me. Lewis will move to New York, and I’ll return to where I’ve always been. Where I’ll always be.
Home.
Juniper
I WALKED DOWN the hallway to my room and then found I couldn’t go in. I couldn’t plan college visits, couldn’t text my parents or mindlessly scroll through my phone when I knew what Fitz was wrestling with. When I could imagine the conversation he and his brother were having. The thought drove me back into the elevator, into the hallway to Fitz’s room, and to his door, where I’ve waited for the past few minutes, pacing.
I feel useless. I know I can’t help.
Not that I won’t try. While I wait, I furiously Google information on Alzheimer’s and compile my findings into three different speeches in my head, one of which I’ll deliver when I feel I’ve given him time to deal on his own. I’ll decide which depending on the mood I find him in. I find positive data on recovery trends, new treatments, experimental programs.
I’m telling myself it’ll help. In the unpleasant depths of my heart, though, I’m not convinced. This isn’t a problem, a tragedy. It’s his tragedy. Unfortunately, not much comes out when you google “how to help Fitzgerald Holton, of Tilton, New Hampshire, when his worst fear comes crashing down upon him.”
When I think it’s time, I take a breath and lift my hand to knock.
Before I have the chance, the door bursts inward and Lewis barrels into the hallway. He’s blinking furiously—I glimpse tears in his eyes.
It freezes me. The door falls shut, and Lewis continues down the hall, not even registering my presence. He’s not heading in the direction of the elevators, and I can’t tell whether he knows this or just doesn’t have a destination in mind at all.
I glance at the door. Fitz is in there. All I have to do is knock.
I turn and follow Lewis.
I have no speeches prepared for Fitz’s brother. I hardly even know him, and he definitely hasn’t asked for my help. But I’ve seen enough of Lewis to suspect he’s the type who won’t wave for help when he’s drowning. He’ll wait for the water to cover him, hoping nobody onshore will notice the spray of the whitecaps pummeling him.
Fitz can wait. Lewis . . . I don’t know.
“Are you okay?” I ask when I reach him. I hate the inadequacy of the question. Of course he’s not okay. He pauses when he hears my voice, facing me and looking like he doesn’t entirely know where he is or doesn’t care.
“I’m not sure I remember what okay feels like.” His voice, like his expression, is stripped bare. I want to help. I want to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, to give him a hug, even. But everything feels insufficient. I stay silent, and he continues. “I try so hard to keep it together. To be the role model Fitz needs.”
Role model? I genuinely like Lewis, but I never exactly thought of him as trying to be some shining exemplar to his brother. Fitz told me how he had to carry Lewis home from the Brown party. I must frown involuntarily, because Lewis lets a self-conscious smile crack through his distress.
“Not a role model for school or responsibility,” he says. “But, like—an example on living.”
“How?” I want him to keep talking, to keep bringing the emotions wearing him down into the open where I can shoulder them with him.
Some of the sadness fades from his eyes, replaced with something like conviction. “Living despite whatever else may be going