“Ethan!”

His parents were in the kitchen when he walked in. He’d figured they’d be waiting for him. His mom, neck stretched, hands on hips, barking. His dad, closemouthed, sitting on a stool at the breakfast counter, both feet planted on the floor, one elbow down on the counter, one hand in his hair.

“Are you out of your mind?” His mother said.

He’d been in trouble before. Who doesn’t step in it every once in a while? This time, though, there would be no excuses offered. He was positive he’d done the right thing. Vanessa would back him up. Vanessa thought it was a great idea and more than that, Vanessa wasn’t hurt, Vanessa hadn’t changed, and Vanessa had thanked him, profusely, on her return to the hospital.

“Your sister is back in the hospital?” His mother was giving him her tortured-parent look.

He nodded, then shrugged.

The tortured parent routine was appropriate. Three years of this and Lauren Hoffman knew what was serious and what wasn’t, and this looked and sounded serious, so Lauren Hoffman responded in kind. However, Ethan knew he’d done the right thing. He knew his parents would never say it, but he knew, given time, they’d realize he’d done a good thing. His mother’s exasperation and his dad’s concerns and his sisters worries and his fears … that stuff was, on good days, more than half the atmosphere in the Hoffman household. Everybody knew it. It could be scooped up with a scoop shovel and boxed.

“Tell your mother Vanessa’s back in bed,” his father said. His father didn’t sigh but could have. Sighs were common in the Hoffman household. According to science, sighing is associated with emotional release. Did anyone in the Hoffman family know that?

Ethan looked at his mother. “She’s back,” he said, “safe and sound.” A teenage grimace appeared on his face; he’d wisely steered the grin away. Hands in his pockets, hunched at the shoulders, he said “I’m glad I did it. I asked Vanessa straightaway. The minute I got into her room, I said, ‘let’s get out of here’ and that’s what we did, and she loved it, and I loved it.” Ethan Hoffman stopped and looked at his parents and shrugged.

“Four hours?” his mother said.

Another shrug, then: “I’m glad,” he said. “I’m glad she said she wanted to go and I’m glad we went and what else was she going to do today? Lay around in a hospital bed? Sleep? Wake up and look around and lay around and then go back to sleep?”

“Your little sister is sick,” his mother said.

Ethan licked his lips, used an index finger to rub his lips, dropped his eyes and his chin followed. “News flash,” he said. “Vanessa told me what she’s been telling you guys. She’s going to die. Like nobody ever thought that before. Like I didn’t know.” He looked at his parents and his breath was just a bit shaky. He’d walked into the house knowing what was coming, prepared for the third degree, it was nothing he couldn’t handle, but he’d run out of steam just inside the front door and now he was on empty. “And she’s not my little sister anymore,” he said. “She’s my sister. She stopped being little a couple years ago.”

He looked away from his parents and let his eyes rove over the kitchen and the living room. Years and years in this house. A detached garage where his mother parked her car. A concrete driveway his dad and his dad’s friends had poured. Soft maples, front and back.

Want me to get angry? That’s what he was thinking. I can get good and angry too, but am I allowed to get angry?

Outside the sun was still shining; it was still the same day he’d rolled his sister out of the hospital and into his car and they’d gone riding around and stopped for shakes at a fast-food place – something they swore each other to secrecy about – and drove up the river road and stopped at the river so Vanessa could sit in the sun and just watch the river roll by. The shake bothered her stomach, and she had to get out of the car to spit up, and when she did, she looked at her brother, laughing, saying “what the hell!” She was a little shaky on her legs but didn’t want his help. They promised each other they wouldn’t share that information.

Lauren Hoffman was doing her “holding herself in” thing and his father was quiet.

“She told me just what she told you guys,” Ethan said. “I knew it was coming, and I listened, and then I tapped her bald head and called ‘bullshit’ and Vanessa laughed.”

“Careful,” his father said.

“She talked, nonstop, all the way,” he said. “She said what I figured she was going to say, and I told her she was full of s-h-i-t”

His mother looked pissed, frightened, and his father raised his eyes, dropped his chin and stared hard. Ethan knew guys who were afraid of their fathers. He’d never been afraid of his father, not like that. His father had never been afraid of being a dad and was more than willing to exercise the power that came with the office. Instilling a little fear? A little was okay. His boys knew where the line was drawn. Ethan figured he’d crossed it, and knew he’d crossed it when he crossed it, and had a strong argument prepared for why.

“All the way where?” his mother asked.

Ethan worked a tongue around his teeth, kept his eyes down. “Marquette Park,” he said.

Lauren Hoffman swiveled her eyes and looked away. Her chin was moving, barely perceptibly. Paul Hoffman was doing simple math in his head. Hospital to Marquette. Marquette to hospital. Drivetime? Two-hours, more or less, so how long was his daughter sitting in a car, sitting in the sun, staring at a river?

“You know why Vanessa hangs on Hannah’s every word?”

Lauren Hoffman lowered her eyes at her son. His father lowered his eyes at his son.

Hannah Madison was still in Wainwright, going to the local university, living with two other girls, and visited Vanessa regularly. Couple times a week, whether Vanessa was in the hospital or at home.

Neither Paul nor Lauren responded to their son’s question.

“She told me this. A year ago. Maybe more. She said Hannah treats her like she’s a real girl. Like she’s alive.” He was taunting his parents, his mother, and he realized that, heard it in his tone and knew he was headed in the wrong direction with his father sitting right there. He went quiet and when there was still no response he had to say the truth – dampen it a bit, maybe back off a bit – but go with the truth. Say what Vanessa told him. “She says Hannah never treats her like she’s dying.”

When he said ‘dying’ the sting hit his nose and eyes, and he wasn’t expecting that. His lips went rubbery, and his eyes had to blink it all back, and his throat got tight. His father was staring at him and his expression was blank, held no judgment, and knowing his father, that could be bad. His mother. Her eyes were down and now Ethan wasn’t as smart and wasn’t as sophisticated and so sure of himself anymore. He’d hurt them. Why would he want to do something like that?

About the Author:

Victor Kreuiter’s stories have appeared in EQMM, Halfway Down The Stairs, Bewildering Stories, Tough, Frontier Tales, Del Sol SFF Review, Literally Stories, and other online and print publications.