Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Elowen De Vere, aka Winnie, is one year older than me, though we’ve never had traditional big sister, little sister roles. I’ve always been protective of her, and today especially, I want to scoop her up into my arms. She looks tiny and frail in her hospital bed, nowhere near the vivacious twenty-five-year-old woman she’s meant to be. At least her complexion has regained some color, which I take as a good sign.
I try to set the boxes down on her bed, but they end up toppling over and spilling onto her legs. “Winnie! What is all this?”
She picks up the smallest box and starts tearing at the clear tape. “Nordstrom was having a sale so I scooped up a few things for this summer.”
“A few things?”
“Right. More like an entire summer wardrobe. I wanted options! Do you have your car keys on you? I can’t get past this tape.”
“Here. Don’t screw up your nails. I just painted them yesterday.” I root through my purse and hand over my keys knowing there’s no sense in pretending to admonish her. With everything Winnie has faced in life, I’ve never had a strong backbone when it comes to going against her. Any small joy seems worth it.
After years of listening to my parents discuss Winnie’s heart defect, I still feel like I only know the rudimentary retelling, the watered-down version of a very serious medical condition that has forced her to endure two valve replacement surgeries, one when she was only three, and another when she was a senior in high school. She’s always had to keep a close watch on her health. She’s worn a heart monitor off and on and kept up with her cardiology appointments. Still, for the most part, she’s been allowed a normal life.
Then, almost two months ago, Winnie came down with a cold, or so we thought. For a few days, she was run-down and had a low-grade fever, but none of us took it seriously until her temperature spiked past the point of ignoring. When we rushed her to the hospital, they found an infection on her heart valve, and she was nearly septic.
They started her on IV antibiotics five weeks ago and she hasn’t left the hospital since. Now, as she sits wrapped in a soft white robe layered on top of her hospital gown, you could almost forget how sick she is except for the red and yellow monitoring leads that connect to a machine beside her bed and the barely visible PICC line tunneled under her skin near her clavicle.
I can’t look at it without my stomach lurching, though my sister swears it’s not painful.
“First up, what’s it going to be…” She tears into the small box and rips through the tissue paper with the finesse of a grizzly bear. “A bright turquoise string bikini!” she explains like she’s an awards show presenter. She hangs it around her neck so it lays over the top of her robe. “Like it?”
“Love it.”
The color is beautiful, and it’ll look great on her. But she won’t leave that up to chance. She’ll have me try it on in a little bit, along with all the other clothes she’s purchased, and she and I will decide yea or nay on each item together. Winnie and I look so much alike, and with how small the age gap is between us, we could easily pass as twins. I’m the perfect mannequin to model all her clothes for her.
“And here we have the coordinating barely there bottoms!” She holds up the bathing suit, and I yank it out of her hands.
“Winnie! Mom will kill you.” I peek one eye at her through the thigh cutout, and she loses it to a fit of laughter before stealing it back from me.
“Mom won’t see it. By the time I’m wearing this, I’ll be traipsing along the beach on Ibiza, sun-kissed and holding hands with the hottest Spanish guy you’ve ever seen. His accent will be thick, and so will his—” She winks and points down. I can’t help but laugh.
“So you’re really going to do it?” I ask, handing her another box to open.
She slides my car key along the tape. “I already bought my ticket.” She pulls out a pair of strappy sandals. I’ll try those on for her as well; our shoe size is yet another thing we share. “Four weeks from now.”
“Four weeks, Winnie?” I can hear how I sound: like Mom.
Then she sets down the shoes and looks up at me. Her green eyes catch mine and hold. I fight back a shiver. “What is it?”
Winnie is the human embodiment of Bob Marley’s song “Three Little Birds.” She’s carefree to a fault. It drives me insane that she’s never anxious or worried. Late to a meeting? Apologize and move on. Worked up over a guy? Eh, it wasn’t that serious anyway.