Stir Me Up. Sabrina Elkins

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      Chapter Four

      I’m used to waking up early, so I’m already up, showered and changed by the time Estella raises herself back to a state of awareness the next morning. She stumbles into the bathroom after me and I attempt to make coffee in the little coffeepot. I’m not used to making regular coffee—my father never drinks it, he only drinks espresso. He’s a snob, I know, but he’s a French chef so what do you expect? I started drinking it as well when I was in tenth grade and the class load required a few late study sessions. I fiddle with the thing, plug it in, flip the switch and Estella comes out in a towel and gets dressed. I pour her a cup of coffee and she tastes it and drinks it like it’s fine. “I have to go back to see Julian,” she says. “What will you do?”

      “I’ll go with you, and stay in the hallway or the waiting room.”

      “You’ll be bored there all day.”

      I think she’ll be thrown out of the room inside five minutes, but I say nothing about this. I just tell her I have a book and I’ll be fine.

      We head downstairs and it occurs to me Estella didn’t touch the pizza. She hasn’t eaten in a long time. “That free coffee in the room was terrible,” I say as we walk to the hospital. “I wonder if there’s a place where we could get a latte.”

      She looks annoyed by this, but I convince her to stop at a coffee shop on the way. I get my latte and order two muffins to go with it and hand her one. She takes it without complaint, so I go get a latte for her as well, and then silently offer myself a major pat on the back. For stealth-feeding of the crazed woman.

      “It’s probably just the trauma,” Estella says to herself as I steer her toward a table in the back. “They probably have a psychologist he’s working with who specializes in cases like this. I’m sure there are things they can do.”

      I want to stay quiet, but my curiosity finally gets the better of me. “So, do you know what condition he’s in?” I try to ask it very gently.

      She looks at me and sighs. “He lost his right leg below the knee, of course. His left femur is broken. He has whiplash and a broken nose and a host of other smaller cuts and contusions. There’s talk of possible mild TBI, traumatic brain injury, but that’s unconfirmed.”

      “I’m sorry, Estella. I shouldn’t have asked.”

      “No, I had to get it out.” She is almost crying. “I should have told you before we even left.” The barista is staring at us. I glare back at her. “The thing is, Julian’s really very lucky, not just to have survived, but to have not been caught up in the blast itself.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean he was thrown by the force of the second explosion. If he’d been closer to it when it detonated, his injuries would probably have been far worse—shattered limbs, multiple amputations....”

      Her voice trails off. Her face is a wall of stress.

      “So, the doctors think he’ll recover all right then,” I say, attempting to refocus her on something more positive.

      “Eventually,” she says with a sigh, “though he’ll always have the amputation to deal with. He has a surgery today at eleven on his other leg. It’s being fitted with an internal pin.”

      “Is he staying in the Marines?”

      “He’s receiving a medical discharge.” She looks at me. “You know he’s coming to live with us, right?”

      I stare at her, mouth agape. “Um. No. He’s coming to live with us?”

      “I thought your father would have told you. He’ll be moving in probably this winter.”

      “How long will he stay?”

      “As long as he needs,” she answers, fiddling with her cup.

      How long is that? I wonder. “Okay, but where is he staying? The house only has two bedrooms.”

      “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that,” she says. “You know your room is the only one that’s downstairs. And your shower is the walk-in kind....”

      Okay, wait—I’ve had that bedroom all my life. “You’re giving him my room?”

      “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind letting him use it awhile.”

      “And where do I go?”

      “I was thinking we could put a bed up in the alcove for you. There’s a closet there.”

      “And no door.”

      “No one goes down that hallway. You’d have it all to yourself.”

      She’s moving me upstairs into a little storage space that’s down the hallway from the master bedroom. My only bathroom will be the small one she uses with just a bathtub. It has almost no cabinet or counter space, and her stuff fills it completely. “Does Dad know about this plan?”

      “We’ve discussed it.”

      This is unreal. I say nothing.

      “Julian will have a wheelchair and crutches. That’s the main reason.”

      “Where will all my stuff go?”

      “Different places. You can still keep most of your closet. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want, Cami,” she says.

      Where else will her nephew go if I say no to this? It’s my room or nothing. Obviously. The stairs up to the second floor are extremely steep, completely out of the question for someone on crutches. “No, it’s СКАЧАТЬ