This Ordinary Life Read Online Free

certainly in a rush to let the world know he’s available I guess.” My voice goes hard but Frankie knows me better than that.
    â€œI love you,” she says. “He doesn’t deserve you anyway. I’ll keep an eye out for gossip, but just be with your family now. Text me later?”
    â€œYeah, okay. Thanks.”
    â€œBesties?”
    â€œForever.” I answer with the second half of our standard goodbye.
    When we hang up, I turn my phone off and throw it in my bag. I can’t believe I thought I loved him. Just the thought of it turns my stomach inside out.
    Danny snores quietly on his bed and I watch his little chest rise and fall through my tear-blurred vision.
    I stand and stretch, wondering where mom went for the coffee. Maybe I can rustle up some subpar coffee in the hall lounge here. I mute the TV and step away from Danny, my arms wrapped around my middle as if I can hold all the broken pieces of myself together.
    â€œBe right back,” I whisper to my sleeping brother. I push all other thoughts from my mind. Frankie is right. I need to focus on my family now, on Danny.
    On my way out, I notice a stack of comics on the other bed in Danny’s room. Great. It’s going to be some loud little kid who watches Batman or whatever all day. Bam Pow Wham. I can hear it now.
    I decide to take a stroll past the nurses’ station on my way to the crappy coffee room. My shoes squeak on the tiles and I keep my gaze on the floor, playing a game with myself as I walk down the hall, stepping only on the used-to-be-white-when-they-were-new tiles, and not on the alternating pastels. I’m hopeful as I reach the end of the hall. If any of our favorite nurses are on call, maybe I can sweet talk them into moving Danny to a private room.
    No such luck. I barely recognize any of the three women at the desk. Maybe it’s been longer than I realized since we were frequent flyers here at the illustrious St. Bonaventure pediatric neurological ward. Not a bad thing. The nurses, all clad in cheerful scrubs, return my tired smile with exhausted ones of their own.
    I wait for the coffee in the automatic machine. It gurgles and hisses behind me while I read the announcements on the bulletin board, all printed on super colorful paper about various activities, crafts, and entertainment that will be happening all week. The hospital really tries to cheer the kids up and keep them busy. Tomorrow, a neon pink page tells me, Lucky the Black Lab therapy dog will be visiting, as well as Junior the clown. On a bright yellow sheet I see that today the Musictime Live for Kids will be making rounds right before the story time, bingo, and make your own loom bracelet hours.
    Reading the notices dredges up the worst memories of some of Danny’s early and very long visits. I think about how drugged they had him, how he hardly woke for days and when he did, how he could barely walk. So small and so sedated. It was the only way to stop his seizures back then.
    The days he was awake he did many of these same activities pegged all over this bulletin board. Playing instruments with the music group, shaking maracas and tambourines; his eyes lighting up, despite the drugged sheen in them, when the magician made a rainbow scarf appear out of his ear.
    Walking down the short hall, Mom or I trailing his IV pole behind him, would exhaust him. How Mom was so much more present then. Sure, the drinking had already started at home, but it hadn’t invaded every bit of her yet. Here with the doctors, she used to ask all the right questions. Take notes on what they said, even.
    It feels like a lifetime ago.
    I picture her this morning, all ratty hair and last night’s makeup. Smelling like she’d spilled more than one drink on herself. Hungover Mom.
    Everything always changes.
    My traitorous, overtired mind is apparently intent on making me suffer by snowballing through all the good memories, all the freaking used-to-bes.