Magnolia by Kristi Cook

nerves. Apparently, it’s already caused some hearing loss in her left ear.”
    â€œOh my God,” I say, my heart beating wildly in my chest. “Wait . . . When you say surgery, do you mean brain surgery?”
    Daddy nods. “Cranial base surgery. The doctors there in Hattiesburg recommended a specialist in Houston.”
    â€œBut I don’t understand. I mean, how? How did something like this happen?”
    He shrugs. “That’s all I know right now, Jemma. She’s been having really bad migraines, remember? She went to see a neurologist, who sent her for a routine MRI last week. She just got the results today.” He takes a deep, rattling breath, his shoulders seeming to sag. “I’m going to call the neurosurgeon in Houston tomorrow and see what I can find out, maybe talk to a few doctors in Jackson, too. Nan’s coming home on Saturday, and we’ll go from there.”
    My mouth is suddenly dry again—so dry I can barely swallow. Blindly, I reach for the Nehi and take a long draft. My hands are shaking so badly when I set it down that I almost knock it over. My dad reaches for the wobbly bottle just in time, steadying it.
    â€œIs she going to be okay?” I ask him.
    He puts an arm around me, drawing me closer. “Like I said, the tumor is benign. At least, they’re pretty sure it is. Your sister is strong—she’ll get through this. She’ll be fine.”
    I just nod, laying my head on his shoulder as I fight back the tears that have gathered in my eyes.
    Why didn’t she call me? Or text me? We’ve always been so close—or I thought we were. Why hadn’t I called her ? She’s been back at school for more than a month now, and I haven’t spoken to her once. Instead, I’ve been caught up in my own stupid problems—what song to set our pom-pom routine to, what to wear to the gala, should I or shouldn’t I go out with Patrick now that I’ve kissed him. All meaningless things in the face of what Nan’s been going through.
    â€œIt’s going to be okay,” Daddy says comfortingly, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
    But what if it’s not?
    Nan’s the athlete in our family, the star soccer player. The sole tofu-eating vegetarian in our family of carnivores. She all but radiates good health and vigor, and it’s pretty much impossible to imagine her sick enough to require surgery.
    We’d gone to Fort Walton Beach for two weeks this summer, and I can picture her there, lying on the sugar-white sand beside me, all tanned and toned, her hair twisted into a messy knot on top of her head while seagulls circled lazily overhead. I remember her propping up on one elbow to watch Ryder messaround in the clear, emerald-green water on his skimboard.
    â€œOkay, wow,” she’d said, lowering her sunglasses to look me in the eye. “I realize he’s three years younger than me and our parents pretty much betrothed the two of you at birth, but if you decide you don’t want him, I’m happy to take one for the team. Just saying.”
    I’d playfully punched her in the arm and somehow ended up chasing her down the beach, the foamy surf lapping at our ankles. I couldn’t catch her, of course. She’s too fast. Daddy’s right—she’s strong, like the petals on a magnolia bloom.
    But we’re talking brain surgery here. I shudder involuntarily at the thought, trying to push the horrifying images out of my head.
    â€œThanks for telling me, Daddy,” I say, trying to hold it together—to be as strong as my sister.
    But deep in my heart, I know that I’m not. That I never will be. Nan is the magnolia, not me.

ACT I
Scene 6
    A s soon as we finish supper, I slip outside and head down to the creek. I pull out a kayak from the shed by the dock and drag it down to the water’s edge.
    In minutes I’m paddling on the still, dark water, my kayak