The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry

smiles, but her lips rise only on one side—a smirk, I’d call it. “You didn’t know Gwen was gone?” she asks.
    â€œNo.” I reach back to grab the edge of the counter. “But I’m so glad she’s visiting Willa. I can’t stand to think of my sister there alone.”
    The pause is long and quiet. The wind outside whistles around the edges of the house, the edges of our conversation. Louise takes her husband’s hand and leans into him. Cooper takes one step toward me and then stops.
    â€œHow is your sister?” Averitt asks.
    â€œShe’s not doing so great. It’s a head injury. A bruised brain.”
    â€œNothing broken or cut?” Louise asks.
    â€œJust her eye. She has a small cut above her eye.” I point to the same location on my eyebrow.
    Louise looks to her son as if comparing the damage. She opens her mouth and then places her hand over her lips. A small sigh escapes.
    â€œSo,” I say. “Let’s all sit down in the living room. I’ll make us some coffee.”
    Averitt looks to me. “I’d like a scotch, please.” He nods his chin at Louise. “And I’m sure she’d like a Chardonnay.”
    â€œOkay. Ya’ll go sit down. I’ll be right there. Cooper shouldn’t be up like this anyway.”
    The three Morrisons, the original Morrisons, stare at me blankly before they move toward the living room. Louise holds her hand on the small of Cooper’s back and Averitt walks ahead with long strides. Exhaustion is working its way underneath my skin. “Coffee,” I say out loud to the empty kitchen. “I’m going to need more of that.”
    *   *   *
    While Averitt and Louise watch the news with Cooper, I return to the hospital, where my daughter and sister are waiting. I enter Willa’s room, where Gwen sits at the bedside. Willa sleeps, her free hand flung over her chest, open and palm down, as if she is covering her heart; her other hand is flat at her side, with the IV fluid moving with invisible force into her vein.
    â€œHi, Pea.” I hug my daughter and use her childhood nickname, which she’s asked me to “please stop using because I am not four years old.”
    Gwen looks up at me, and there she is: the little girl. “She won’t wake up. Is she going to be okay?” she asks. Leftover mascara clumps around her blue eyes. Her face is clean and unwaveringly beautiful. I am overcome with love, the kind that steps in front of a bullet; the type of love that cracks open a life. It’s the kind of love that drives you crazy. I lean down and kiss my daughter on her forehead. “Willa is going to be okay. After something like this, nothing is ever exactly the same, but she’ll be fine.”
    â€œWhat is that for?” Gwen asks, pointing to the bag of fluid dripping into Willa’s vein.
    â€œTo keep the swelling down.”
    â€œWhat swelling?’
    â€œHer brain,” I say.
    â€œHer brain is swollen. What the hell? That can’t be good, Mom.”
    â€œNo, it’s not good, but it’s not terrible, Gwen. Just sit here with her, okay? When she wakes up, she will be so happy to see you.”
    Gwen nods, closing her eyes in the tight-squint motion she’s done since she was aware enough to stay her own crying. “Sure.” Then she opens her eyes. “I’m sorry about sneaking out.”
    â€œI know,” I say. “We can talk about that later. I’m going to run to the cafeteria and get something to drink. You want anything?”
    â€œA Coke.” She answers me, but her gaze is on Willa, her hands on the bed rails, gripping them tightly, as if she can keep Willa from sinking further into oblivion.
    When I return, Willa is awake. She smiles when she sees me, points to Gwen. “Your daughter. She’s funny.”
    I nod, nearing the bedside just as the IV pump begins to sound. Beep.