Turning left, blinker set, steady stream of rain and cars, Amelia craned her neck, stretching her vision and striking the gray-brown car mat with her left foot rapidly. Her mother’s words echoed, “He’s not well, Amelia…hurray, please.” Amelia clutched the old beige phone, “What did the doctors say?” “Just hurray,” her slow, worried words increased the receiver’s weight.
Amelia turned to her younger brother, sitting in the passenger seat, “Dad’ll be fine.” Brent drew his lips tight; eyes burning with water and trained straight ahead, staring at nothing. “He’s strong Brent.” “Amelia…he’s…last time was too close.” “But he pulled through, he can do it again.” Brent leaned forward, flipping through radio static. An old song came on—Amelia knew every syllable, but she didn’t sing, instead she drifted to the kitchen of the house they’d lived in when she was five. She was dancing with Dad on the yellow linoleum floor, her feet on his. Mom hummed gently as she finished dinner and Brent knocked toys together in his play pen. It had been a nightly occurrence.
Tears fell from Amelia, matching the clouds drop for drop.
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