Page 5 of Promise Me Nothing
I barely even hear it when someone sits down at the computer to my right. Hardly notice when someone finally comes to collect the printed pages out of the printer to my left.
Because the words in this email have robbed me of my ability to use my legs. My hands. My mouth. Even my eyes, which have gone blurry and unfocused.
I blink a few times, trying to adjust my vision, the bright light of the computer screen feeling now too aggressive in my face.
But even as I blink, and blink, and try to refocus my eyes, those words never shift, change or disappear.
Your brother has joined MatchLink. Do you want to connect?
It shouldn’t make a lick of sense. But it does.
My brother.
Mybrother.
Mybrother.
No.Notmy brother.
Mybrother died when I was twelve.Mybrother’s name is Joshua.Mybrother is…was.He was everything. He was the man I looked to for support and guidance in a world where we both felt so lost. He was my constant support until he was taken from me. Too soon. Too quickly after our parents.
Sothis?This isn’t a way to connect withmybrother.Mybrother has been gone for years, and I have mourned him and the life I thought we’d have one day.
Whoever this is? On the other side of this screen?
He might share blood with me, but he isnotmy brother.
And he’ll never take Joshua’s place.
My cursor hovers over a green button with a tiny DNA link on it and a few simple words.
Do you want to connect?
And then, before I can think better of it, before I can question myself, scold myself, feel ashamed about the fact that I might be replacingmybrother … I click yes.
CHAPTER TWO
Hannah
I stay seated as everyone shuffles around, slowly grabbing their things and filing noisily off the bus.
When Sienna found out I was taking a Greyhound, she told me to make sure I carried sanitizer in my hand at all times. I’d actually laughed at her, though the occasion didn’t have much room for laughter. We’d been drowning our sorrows in a goodbye cheesecake while crying and saying our goodbyes at the time.
Then, as I rode on the 1353 bus route from Phoenix to Union Station in Los Angeles, I finally understood what she meant. The blue micro suede seats weren’t an issue. Neither was the bathroom in the back. Everything about the bus itself was totally fine.
The bus wasn’t what Sienna had been referring to.
It was the people.
Specifically, it was the kid in front of me picking his nose and wiping it on the window. And the guy a few seats away who was dipping and spitting noisily into a water bottle.
And then there was the woman sitting next to me that pulled a full-size bucket of KFC out of her bag and proceeded to eat the entire thing as I watched in mortification out of the corner of my eye.
Part of me marveled at her ability to put it all away. She was a tiny little thing, so I couldn’t imagine where she stored it all. And the precision with which she went after every last little bit of chicken was nothing short of impressive. But after she was done – two hours later – she never wiped her greasy hands and proceeded to touch everything around her.
I have some mild issues with cleanliness. It doesn’t matter what the situation is. My room? Impeccable. My clothes? It’s an intentional choice to wait three days between washing things, and that’s only because I’ve never lived somewhere that doesn’t charge for laundry and the expense of doing it daily would have been too much.
When you’re a kid who isn’t in control of the environment you’re in, when you’re surrounded by dozens of different habits and levels of hygiene and just have to deal with overall dirtiness, having a clean environment to exist in becomes important.
