I know I have to be strong for them, but a black hole forms in my emptiness, sucking me into it. I’m here, lying in a hospital bed, but I’m not here at all. I’m lost in a new reality. I can’t have children. My Game of Life car has suddenly downshifted, backtracked, and off-roaded from the board, forced to sail over the table’s edge. Game over.

“We’ll keep you here for a few days as you recover,” the doctor continues.

“Wait, what about Jamaica?” Ashe’s sudden return to the conversation makes my shoulders jolt. And then, ache. “We leave Sunday morning.”

The doctor shakes her head. “Marnie can’t travel. Recovery will take six weeks or so.”

“That’s what they said when I had my hysterectomy,” Cora says, “and I was back to work in three.”

The doctor is nonplussed. “This wasn’t a routine surgery. Marnie’s injuries are substantial. The hip bruise alone will make it difficult for her to get around. She’ll need care.”

Ashe rushes to my side, grabbing my hand like it’s his cue. “We’ll take care of her.”

“Of course, we will,” Cora says, hand going to her son’s back. “Your family is here for you.”

Her words spin in my head, and I think ‘you’ll be good as new in no time’ just as she says the same words aloud.

I’m not psychic. I’ve heard her spiel at Sunny’s Beach Market when employees have asked for leave over illnesses, broken bones, or sick kids. Your family is here for you. You (or your daughter, son, husband, grandmother, insert relative) will be good as new in no time.

She means it. Just because she says it a lot doesn’t mean it’s insincere.

And yet.

That’s just something people say. Isn’t it? I long to demand a truth policy with them as I so easily did with Grady Tripp. But it’s too late. If not established early, it might as well not be done at all.

Besides, being family is understood, not something that needs saying. If one has to say, “We’re family,” is it really true?

Not that I know much about family.

“Thanks,” I manage, warmed by Ashe’s comfort, at least. His fingers intertwine with mine, fitting just right.

“Marnie, what’s your house number again?” Wes asks once the doctor leaves, and the room slips into silence. I eye the clipboard he’s holding, not surprised that he was tasked with filling it out.

“I’ll take care of that, Wes. Thank you,” I say, patting the movable table beside me. He sets it down, smiles weakly, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “How’re you feeling?”