It Took Something Like fiction by Pen Oldham
I’ll never forgive Dad for waiting until morning to tell me about Ollie’s accident. Mom, I would have understood. She’s always had trouble delivering bad news. The wine bottle was her companion through tough times— not us. Dad was supposed to be the honest one. He’d always respected my right to know what was going on, even though he seemed to care more about his job than his children. But the officer had talked to Dad that night—just the two of them. Those red and blue lights must have flashed in his face for hours, but Dad still had made the choice
to wait until morning before telling me, Ollie’s sister, his oldest sibling. I was there for his birth, his first steps, first words, first day of kindergarten, and I’d be there for his graduation later that year. I’d drop everything for Ollie. Dad wouldn’t—didn’t. When I got to Raleigh, one tank of gas and five hours of driving after the phone call, Ollie was conscious. It should’ve taken me six, but I rode that threshold where the dotted lane lines blur to solid white all the way through Georgia and the Carolinas. That rage from being last
to find out screamed through the ambient sounds of the highway and the silence of my car. Ollie looked so little in that white hospital bed. His toes poked out at the bottom of the sheets and his curly—now matted—blond hair fanned out in every direction on the pillow. Braces held his neck, head, and right arm in place, but his still eyes communicated every emotion that he needed them to. “Oh, Maddie. Come. Sit.” Mom scooted over on the fake leather bench and elbowed Hugh, Woodberry Forest School
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