Taz
“Are you going to be back for dinner?”
I stop Rafe right before he slips out the kitchen door.
Every morning this past week, he’s done the same thing; disappear as soon as the kids leave for school and come home just in time to put them to bed. Left me to deal with Nicky, the kids, and my parents.
Don’t get me wrong; reconnecting with my sister has been a gift even under these circumstances. Dealing with the kids has been more of a challenge, especially Sofie who still regards me with a healthy dose of suspicion. There’d been a few difficult questions, most of which Nicky had dealt with, but early this morning I woke up to my niece sitting on the edge of the couch where I’ve been sleeping at night, her eyes on her sleeping mother on the other side of the room. She looked like she’d been crying for a while, but when I tried to comfort her; she shrugged me off and dismissed my offer to talk about it with a shake of her head before slipping back upstairs.
My parents had come by daily, my mother directing angry glares at me as if the current situation was one of my making. My dad looked lost and I had no clue how to make inroads with either of them.
Tonight they’re supposed to come by with dinner to spend some time with the kids, and I know it’ll be difficult because of what Nicky asked me this morning.
“I’ll try,” Rafe mumbles.
“Try harder,” I snap.
His eyes narrow on me. “Is there something I should know?”
“You mean other than your wife dying?” I hiss, stepping closer in hopes Nicky won’t overhear. “Because she is, you know. No matter how deep you choose to bury your head in the sand.”
“I’m not—” he starts, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.
“Give me a break,” I scoff, before handing him a dose of reality. “She told me this morning she thinks after today she’ll be ready for morphine, but doesn’t want me to give it to her.”
He looks confused. “Why?”
“Because she knows as well as you and I do what it means once we start with the morphine. She doesn’t want to put that burden on me.”
“Oh.” Realization steals over his face.
Morphine brings relief, but only covers up the underlying cause of the pain and discomfort of fluid collecting around the major organs when a heart pumps ineffectively. The inevitable side effect is unfortunately a slowing down of both breathing and heart rate. In short, morphine will speed up the dying process and my sister does not want me to carry the burden of administering it.
I brush impatiently at my eyes. “You need to call in palliative home care, and you need to be here when Mom and Dad show up for dinner.”
I stiffen when he suddenly reaches out and pulls me against his chest, his arms banding around me. “I’ll call and I’ll be here. I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Without conscious thought, my hands slip around him, grabbing onto the back of his shirt. I press my cheek against him and breathe in his scent. The comfort it provides painfully growing like a balloon in my chest.
Just like that I’m transported nine years back, the last time we stood like this. Me with hope in my eyes and my heart on my sleeve. His arms had felt safe then too, until my mother walked in and those same arms pushed me away. That hurt, but not as much as Mom’s anger. She yelled, telling me, in no uncertain terms, how horrible I was for throwing myself at my sister’s fiancé, especially with a baby on the way. That was the first I’d heard of the pregnancy. The information tore through me like a knife.
The memory still burns ugly.
Ashamed, I blow out a lungful of air through pursed lips and move my hands to his chest, pushing firmly. He releases me quickly and I step out of his hold.
“Taz…”
I ward off anything more he has to say with a raised hand. “Just be here, please. Okay?”
His answer is a sharp nod before he walks out the door. I press my eyes shut and deeply inhale through my nose.
“Taz?” I hear my sister’s voice calling from the living room.
I plaster a smile on my face as I walk in. “Hungry?”
It strikes me how much her appearance has changed, even in the past week. The lines and angles of her face stand out in stark contrast against the graying tinge of her skin. Her eyes are even more sunken and it’s almost like I can see death creeping in.
“Not really,” she says with an attempt at a smile. “I think I’ll save my appetite for dinner tonight. With a bit of luck, Mom’s making her macaroni and cheese.”
My mouth waters at the mention of our mother’s mac and cheese. She makes it from scratch with cream, three or four different cheeses, ham and bacon bits, and tops it with breadcrumbs for a crispy crust. At least fifteen thousand calories per serving, but tastier than any other I’ve ever had, bar none.
“Sounds like a plan,” I tell her, approaching the bed. “I’ll put some water on for tea as soon as I help you get dressed.”
“Let me rest a little longer. I wouldn’t mind that tea, though.” But before I can move, she reaches for my hand and grabs on tight. “Thank you for being here. It means everything.”
“Don’t.” I shake my head. “There isn’t a place on the face of the earth I’d rather be.” I bend over her bed and press a kiss to her forehead. “Bonus kiss,” I tell her. “Making up for all the ones we’ve missed.”
I put the kettle on in the kitchen, struggling to keep my emotions in check. I thought I knew what it was like to have your emotions worn raw, but nothing compares to this. When I have two mugs ready with teabags I feel a little more in control, something I desperately need for my upcoming conversation with Mom. I grab the phone and dial.
“Everything okay?” My mother sounds almost breathless as she answers the phone.
“She’s okay,” I quickly reassure her.
“Oh. Natasha.” Her voice is immediately flat when she hears it’s me and I roll my eyes to the ceiling. God, give me strength.
“Yeah, it’s me, Mom. Listen, I’m not sure what you had planned for tonight’s dinner, but do you think you could make your mac and cheese?”
It’s silent on the other side for a moment when I hear her derisive snort. “I’m making a rib roast. Nicky needs the iron to keep her strength up and it’s Rafe’s favorite. I’m not about to change my plans because you suddenly have a hankering for my cooking.”
Yikes. Shot to the heart. She can’t seem to help herself. This time it’s me who needs a minute to rein in the need to lash back. This is not the time.
“It’s not for me, Mom,” I say deceptively calmly. “It’s for Nicky. She says she’s saving her appetite, hoping for your mac and cheese.”
“She needs to eat—”
“Mom…”
“—Or she’ll get too weak. You’re a nurse, you know her body needs fuel.”
“Mom,” I repeat, shaking my head. “She’s tired. I’m not going to force her to do anything she doesn’t feel up to, including eating something she doesn’t want, and she doesn’t want to eat anything but your mac and cheese casserole.”
Another silence before she finally responds. “Fine. I’ll bring mac and cheese.”
The next thing I hear is dead air. She’s hung up.
Christ.

Rafe
“Grapes can be very dangerous for Charlton, Mrs. Myers. Remember last time you fed him fruit salad and he was throwing up?”
I try to be gentle with the senior citizen, who brought in her overweight beagle because he was puking. Again.
“But aren’t vegetables and fruits supposed to be healthy for you? You told me he had to lose weight.”
“Yes, Mrs. Myers, but just because they’re healthy for people doesn’t make them healthy for dogs. Haven’t you been feeding him the low calorie food I gave you a sample of last time you were here?”
She has two bright red spots on her cheeks as she mumbles something under her breath I don’t quite catch.
“Sorry?”
“I said, that special food is three times as expensive as the regular stuff. How am I supposed to afford that on my tiny pension?”
I drop my head. We do this song and dance every time she comes in with the dog. Mrs. Myers is not suffering. Her husband, a local dentist who died five years ago, left her very well taken care of, but I don’t have the heart to call her on it. I’m sure the woman is lonely, and I can’t deny she loves her dog; I wish she’d look after him better.
“Lisa?” I call out and my assistant sticks her head in the door.
“Yes?”
“Can you give Mrs. Myers a large bag of the low cal Health Diet, please?”
“A large bag?” Lisa’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline.
“Correct.”
I catch my assistant’s eye roll before she disappears into the back.
It takes another fifteen minutes before Mrs. Myers—my last appointment of the afternoon—drives off with a sixteen-pound bag of Health Diet in the trunk of her Honda Civic, and her beagle, Charlton, hanging out the passenger side window, his tongue lolling from his mouth.
“You do realize you’re technically paying that woman for bringing her dog in at this rate, right?” Lisa comments from behind me.
“Hmmm,” I mumble, neither confirming nor denying. My mind is already on what’s waiting for me at home.
I slip by her and duck into my office where I quickly finish my notes on Charlton’s file, shut down my computer, and turn off the lights. It’s time to get my kids off the bus.
“Give her my love,” Lisa says when I tell her I’m off.
“Will do. Just in case, would you give Rick a heads-up before you roll out? Things seem to be moving quickly.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry, Rafe.”
Hearing the emotion in her words I avoid looking at her, having a hard enough time dealing with my own. “Me too,” I mutter, as I pull open the door.
“What’s wrong?” Sofie asks me the moment she steps off the bus and sees me, immediately suspicious.
“Nothing, Pipsqueak,” I assure her, as I hoist Spencer up on my shoulders and grab for my girl’s hand. “Was done early so I thought I’d wait for you at the stop. Grandma and Grandpa should be over soon. Grandma’s bringing dinner.” I ramble in an attempt to distract.
“Is Grandma making dessert?” Spencer asks above me.
“Probably,” I tell him, glancing at his sister.
Her eyes are firmly focused on the house at the end of the driveway, her lips set in a straight line.
Fuck, I want to scoop her up too, take both my kids, and run as far as I can from the heartbreak I know is waiting inside.
“Hey, guys,” Nicky says a tad too brightly when we walk in the door.
She’s sitting in a corner of the couch, her feet up on the ottoman, covered with a quilt. It’s at least seventy-five degrees outside, hardly the type of weather that requires an extra layer. The inability of her body to retain heat is another of the many signs her heart is failing. Another is the cough that seems to have developed these past two days, signaling fluid build up in her lungs.
Not that I needed additional signs, just looking at Nicky is evidence enough.
I leave the kids with her and stick my head into the kitchen, where I find Taz pulling chocolate milk from the fridge.
“Hey, how are things?”
When she turns around I note the strain in her face. “Tough. She spent most of the day in bed but insisted she needed to be up when the kids got home. It cost her though.”
“I see that. I called palliative care. The nurse will be here at seven thirty tomorrow morning, but maybe I should see if someone can come in tonight? Get her some relief for the night?”
Taz shrugs her shoulders. “Not sure she’ll go for that, not with Mom and Dad coming. I already tried to get her to let me give her only the first dose, but she refuses.”
“Let me call,” I insist. “If I can get them to pop in after nine, the kids will be in bed and we can make sure Mom and Dad have left.”
Taz nods, setting the glasses and a plate with cheese, crackers, and grapes on a tray before carrying it inside, while I quickly call to arrange for a nurse to visit tonight.

“She hardly ate at all.”
Sarah pins Taz, who’s putting plates into the dishwasher, with a glare the moment she walks into the kitchen after putting the kids to bed.
From the moment Ed and Sarah showed, the tension had been thick enough to cut. Dinner had been a rather quiet affair, with Sarah and Spencer doing most of the talking. Sofie had been quietly observant, as had her grandpa. Nicky had a hard time keeping her eyes open, and Taz looked like she was trying hard to be invisible while keeping a close eye on her sister.
Some of the tension had lifted while Sarah took the children upstairs. With both Ed and Nicky dozing off side by side on the couch, I’d followed Taz in here to help clean up.
Taz quietly continues to load the dishwasher with Sarah’s eyes boring a hole in her back.
“Mom,” I quietly draw her attention. “Eating takes a lot of her energy. It’s no use trying to force-feed her.”
“Don’t say that,” she snaps, the eyes she turns on me fearful.
“Please, Mom,” Taz pleads with her. “Don’t waste precious time on things that don’t matter.”
Before Sarah has a chance to respond, Taz slips out of the kitchen.
“Come on.” I put my arm around Sarah’s slumped shoulders and guide her inside, where Taz perches on the armrest at her sister’s side, kissing the top of her head before whispering something in her ear. A soft smile appears on Nicky’s lips as she blinks her eyes open.
“How about a nightcap for the road?”
Ed’s eyes shoot open at my offer. “You still have that Glenfiddich?”
“As much as you left in the bottle last time.” I grin at him. “Mom? You want something? A glass of port?”
“Half,” she says, sitting down in one of the club chairs, her eyes on her daughters.
“Taz? Baileys?” I offer, remembering that, like her older sister, she used to love the stuff over ice.
“If you have some, please.”
By the time I have the drinks handed out and sit down, Ed is holding court, regaling old stories in his raspy voice even I have heard many times before. It doesn’t matter, it feels familiar, and from the look on Nicky’s face, it’s clear she’s enjoying the trips down memory lane.
“What are you doing?” Sarah’s voice is suddenly sharp over her husband’s mellow drone. She pushes out of her chair, her eyes on Taz who’s lifting her glass to Nicky’s lips. “She can’t have alcohol with her medications.” In two steps she covers the distance and reaches out, snatching the glass from Taz’s hand. “Are you trying to kill her?”
A sharp gasp from Taz’s lips is the only sound before a deadly silence falls in the room. Ed is the first one to break it.
“Uncalled for, Sarah,” he snaps in a firmer tone than we’re used to from him.
“Mom,” Nicky manages, her hand seeking out Taz’s empty one. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters,” her mother responds, agony twisting her features as she sets the glass on the table and wraps her arms around herself.
“Mom,” Nicky repeats. “I’m dying. I can feel it, and I hate how hard this is for everyone. I’m gathering moments at this point. Sights, sounds, touches, and tastes, to take with me. It’s all I’ll be able to take when I leave soon.”