When My Adoptive Sister Came Back

Chapter 4 — The Night After

The call ended. I stared at the dark screen and let my hand fall. My arm felt heavy, like I had been holding a weight for too long. I put the phone face down on the rolling tray and lay back.

I was tired in a way sleep could not fix. The room was dim and flat. The window was a wide square of gray. When I turned my head, I saw my face in the glass. It looked washed out. My lips had no color. The skin under my eyes was dull. I thought, This is what a person looks like when a long day has finished her.

I pulled the blanket up and tried to breathe slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. The IV hummed. The monitor ticked. The sounds were small and steady. They were the only steady things I had.

My mind slipped to a softer picture because it did not know where else to go. I saw the day I married Jacob. I was nervous and shy, but I felt light. I told myself I would learn how to be a good Luna. I told myself I would learn how to be a good wife. I believed that if I worked hard and stayed calm, love would come and stay. I believed the house would fill with simple things: two cups on the table, one coat on each hook, a laugh in the hall at the end of the day. Back then I did not think about rules or elders or the weight of a title. I thought about mornings and dinners and a warm hand reaching for mine in the dark.

I did not know how fast a dream can turn into a job. I did not know how long a job can last when the person beside you is already far away in his head. I learned to carry lists. I learned to smile at meetings. I learned to speak last so no one would say I took too much space. I learned to hold my breath when a phone rang behind a closed door and a soft voice answered on the other end.

The glass showed my face again. I studied it like a map. It did not show what hurt. It only showed what was left.

I closed my eyes for a moment. My body was empty and sore. I did not have the words for it and I did not try to find them. I let the quiet sit with me the way a chair sits in a room. It did not help. It did not harm. It just stayed.

Footsteps came down the hall. They were fast and controlled. The door opened without a knock. Jacob stepped in like a man walking into a meeting he meant to run.

He looked at the monitor. He looked at the IV. He looked at me. His face did not change. He shut the door with the care of a person who cares about doors.

“Why did you hang up on me?" he asked.

“I didn't want to argue," I said. My voice sounded thin. It was not a trick. It was all I had.

“I gave you a clear instruction," he said. He did not come close to the bed. He stood at the foot and kept his hands in his pockets. “There is a welcome tonight. You will attend."

I turned my head to the glass again. My reflection was still pale. “I won't."

“You will," he said. “This is not optional."

“I am not well," I said. I kept my tone flat and simple.

“You were admitted and observed. Lyle told me you are stable," he said. “We will arrange a chair at the front. You will sit. You will greet people. It will take an hour."

He said it like a list. He said it like a plan that had already worked many times before. I let him finish. I did not nod. I did not shake my head.

“You are Luna," he added when I did not speak. “You set the tone. If you refuse to attend a welcome for a returning member, you send the wrong message."

“What message is that?" I asked.

“That you are small," he said. “That you are jealous. That you are careless with duty."

I breathed in and out. I kept my eyes on the window. A plane crossed the square sky and left a thin line behind it. The line faded and left nothing. I watched it go.

He waited for me to fill the space. I did not. He took a slow step closer, as if that would shake an answer loose.

“Your mother is worried," he said.

“She is Grace," I said. “She worries about tables and chairs. She worries about what people will say."

He ignored the correction. “My parents have already set the hour. Elders are coming. People will notice if you are not there."

“People will notice," I said. I did not add more.

He looked at my hands. They were still on top of the blanket. They were still. “Get dressed," he said. “Lyle will help. The car is at six-thirty."

“No."

He pressed his lips together until they thinned. “You cannot say no to this."

“I just did," I said.

He took his hands out of his pockets and set them on the rail at the end of the bed, one on each side as if he were about to lift the thing and carry it away. “You have a role. It is bigger than your moods. It is bigger than your appointments. You will walk in with me. You will sit. You will nod at Elder Mina's speech. You will welcome Cam—" He stopped himself before he said her name. “You will welcome the guest."

I let the silence settle. He had said enough for both of us.

“Do you understand me?" he asked.

“I understand your words," I said. “I don't accept them."

His jaw worked once. He looked at the monitor again, as if the numbers there could support his case. “I am asking you to do the bare minimum."

“I have done the bare minimum for a long time," I said. “I have done more than that for a long time."

“You make this personal," he said. “It is not personal. It is public."

“I am a person," I said. “I go with myself to every public place."

He took a breath and let it out through his nose. “You will be there," he said, lower now, like the low note of a warning. “Do not make me repeat myself in front of others."

I did not answer. My silence was not a trick or a test. It was all I had left that was clean.

He waited again. The room did not help him. The IV did not help him. The window did not help him. He seemed surprised by the fact that the world sometimes stays still when he wants it to move.

He tried another path. “You put me in a bad position," he said. “Elders expect unity. They expect grace. They expect the Luna to reflect the Alpha's strength."

“I have reflected your strength," I said. “I have reflected it until I could not see my own face."

He lifted his chin. “You won't bend?"

“No."

He watched me, as if a different answer might appear if he gave me time to be reasonable. When it did not, he looked at the clock. He had other tasks. He had other lists. He did not want to stand in a room where nothing bent the way he was used to.

“I will send a dress," he said at last. “Dark, respectful. You will be ready at six-thirty."

I did not turn from the window. “No," I said again. “Stop sending things I will not wear."

He stepped back. “You are making a mistake."

“Maybe," I said. “Maybe not."

He reached for the door. His hand paused on the handle. “Last chance," he said. “I expect you to do your duty."

I let the words come out in a line as straight as I could make it. “It is not my duty to pretend I am fine."

He opened the door. The hall noise moved in, then stilled again when he pulled it shut behind him. The room was the same. The beeps kept time. The IV kept its quiet tug.

I let my shoulders sink into the pillow. I did not cry. I did not speak. I closed my eyes and counted breaths again. In. Out. In. Out. I told myself that saying no is also a kind of work and I had done enough work for one hour.

My phone was still on the tray, face down. I did not pick it up. I did not want any more voices telling me what I had to be. I looked at the window one more time. My face was still there, pale and tired. It was mine.

A nurse walked by in the corridor and hummed a tune I did not know. The sound was small and human. It reached me. I held it like a stone in my hand and let it warm there. The rest could wait. The welcome could happen without me. The world could turn without me for one night. I would stay here. I would breathe. I would not explain.

The room dimmed as the day slid away. The square of gray went dark. The monitor kept its steady beat like a metronome for a song I did not need to learn. I turned on my side and pulled the blanket close. I thought again of the girl who believed that love would come if she was patient and useful and calm. I told her she could stop trying to earn it. I told her she could rest.

The door stayed shut. The corridor moved on. I closed my eyes and let the quiet take me as far as it would. If it stopped at the edge of sleep, that was enough. If it did not, that was also enough. I did not force it either way. I had already done my part.

I did not go to the welcome.