But people can recover from that. I know they can. Mr. Shomper had a mild heart attack a couple of years ago and he’s still here—still teaching, even.
“That’s good,” I say, fighting my own tears. “That’s great.”
“What?” Carly chokes out.
I shake my head, then realize she can’t see me and my words aren’t making much sense to her.
“It’s great that she’s alive,” I say, all the hope in my heart coming through in my tone. “She’s alive, Carly.”
“You’re right,” Carly says after a few seconds. “She’s alive. She has a chance.”
“A good chance, right?” Please let her have a good chance.
She sniffles. “They say that if she makes it through the night, that it’s a good sign.”
I close my eyes and silently hope that she makes it through the night. That she doesn’t pass in her sleep without ever waking up like Sofu did.
“They’ll take care of her. They’ll make her better,” I say even though I’m not convinced of the last part. I don’t exactly have the best track record with hospital outcomes. But I want Carly to have hope. And I desperately want my words to prove true.
“What do you need?” I ask. “What can I do to help?”
“We’re heading to the airport in a couple of hours. We’re all going. The whole family. Just in case.” She pauses. I can hear her crying—big, snuffling sobs. Tears prick my lids and I blink against them. “I don’t know how long we’ll be there.”
You’ll be there till she’s well enough to go home. Or until she can never go home . . . The thought rips me up inside.
“I’ll get your homework,” I say, needing to be able to do something. “And I’ll tell your teachers.”
“And Kelley and Dee. Sarah. Amy. I didn’t call anyone. Just you.”
“I’ll tell them.” I feel so sad for her.
“And can you watch my Daimon?”
Daimon. Her fish. It’s a betta—a Siamese fighting fish.
She swears he’s brilliant. That he does tricks. Personally, I think that he comes to the surface when she dips her finger because he’s genetically programmed to attack.
“You know where Mom hides the spare key. Can you come get his bowl and keep him till I get back?”
“I’ll get him first thing in the morning.”
“You need to feed him once a day. I do it right before I leave for school. Don’t overfeed him,” she says, her words rushing together. “Just give him what he can eat in two minutes. No more. Or bacteria will get in the water and that’s not good.”
“Got it. His food’s in the freezer on the door, right?”
“Yes. Take care of him. Promise.”
“I promise.”
A promise I’m destined to break.
Four days later, Carly calls with the awesome news that Grammy B’s going to be okay.
“She has to take aspirin every day and beta-blockers and something else that’s a blood thinner . . . it starts with a P. She was only in CICU one night; then they moved her to a regular room, and then they let her out of the hospital today. We’re flying home tonight,” she says, sounding happy and relieved. “Can you bring Daimon by? I miss his wavy blue fins.”
I glance at the bowl on the end table. “Sure.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good.” Sort of a white lie. He didn’t eat yesterday. I ended up having to scoop all the food out after a few minutes so it didn’t taint the water. He didn’t eat this morning, either. I take a step closer to the end table. “He’s good.”
“Did you do the little trick where you put your finger in the water and he bumps up against it?”
I’m standing over the bowl now, looking at the fish. He’s not moving at all. Not even the flick of a fin. I dip my finger in the water and bump it against the little blue body with its fins sagging toward the bottom.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.
“Yep. Bumped the fish in the water. Doing it right now. As we speak.” Truth. Sort of.
She laughs. “Gotta go. The taxi’s here to take us to the airport. See you soon.”
I stare at the fish, willing it to move. “You’re sleeping, right?”
Right. Sleep of the dead.
With a sigh, I text Luka. Twenty minutes later, he’s at my door. “What’s up?”
“I need you to look at something.”
“Okay.” He steps into the hall as I pull the door open. “How come you called me instead of Jackson?”
“Two reasons,” I say. A few weeks ago, Luka acted all territorial a couple of times in the game. It made me wonder if he was into me. But lately, I’ve had the feeling he’s into Carly. Hard to tell. “First, I just think you have this relationship with Carly.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“I mean, a friendship . . . that you’re friends with her—”
“So’s Jackson.” He gives me a weird look.
“Second,” I continue as if he hadn’t interrupted, “Jackson took his mom grocery shopping because her car’s in the sho—” I break off as Luka laughs. “What?” I ask.
“When you met him, did you ever picture him taking his mom shopping?”
“Honestly? I never pictured him having a family.”
“You thought he just sort of arrived in the world preformed. Spawned.”
My turn to laugh. “Pretty much.”
Luka’s expression turns serious. “So what’s going on with Carly? Did you hear from her? She okay?”
“She’s okay.” Until she finds out about the fish. “Shoes,” I remind him.
He toes off his sneakers. House rules. Mom never let anyone wear shoes in the house, so I don’t, either. Just like Sofu never let anyone wear shoes in the dojo. It just isn’t something you do.
I lead him into the den. “Well?”
“Well what?” he spreads his hands.
“Is it dead?”
He looks at me. Looks around again. Finally spots the bowl sitting on the end table.
“Uh . . .” He stares at the bowl, reaches in, stirs the water in circles, stares at the fish, then pulls his hand out and looks for something to wipe it on. He’s reaching for the afghan that’s draped over the back of the sofa, the one my mom made when she was pregnant with me. I lunge for it and get it out of harm’s way.
“Use your jeans,” I say.
“It’s either dead, or”—he wipes first the front then the back of his hand on his jeans—“There’s no ‘or.’ It’s dead.”
“Oh God.” I bury my face in my hands. “I killed Carly’s fish.”
“Are you sure you killed it? If this is the same one she had before I went to Seattle, it’s, like . . . what . . . more than two years old? Maybe it just died of natural causes.”
“It’s still dead. After I promised I’d take care of it. What do we do?”
“We?” Luka’s brows shoot up. “You just tell her you’re sorry. I don’t know. Offer to hold a fish funeral?”
The front door slams. “Miki?”
“I killed Carly’s fish,” I wail.
Dad wanders into the den. Luka offers his hand.
“Don’t shake that,” I warn Dad. “He just had it in the water with the dead fish.”
“Right. Because it isn’t like I haul fish out of the lake all the time,” Dad says with a grin. Which is true, him being a fishing fanatic and all.
Still, he does this sort of half-wave-half-salute thing instead of shaking Luka’s hand.
Luka scrubs his hand on his thigh, then shoves it in his pocket.
Dad peers at the fish. “Buy her a new one. Make sure you look for one that has the same red tinge on the front fins.”
“You mean, like, don’t tell her the old one died?” Luka asks. “Just get her a replacement and try to pass it off?”
Dad shrugs. “That’s what I did with Miki’s turtle when she was six.”