Page 244 of Mangled Memory
I have issues remembering some chunks of time after a traumatic brain injury. That’s not unusual or unreasonable. It doesn’t mean I’m incompetent.
“Come back, Ellie.” I stroke a hand down her spine and she turns, this time positioning herself on my other side doing something similar.
“Ci, help her. It looks like she’s all spun up.”
“Yeah, and two Murphy women on edge is two too many.”
“Exactly.” I stroke Eleanor’s fur and offer my brother a genuine, albeit small, smile. “I get to freak out today. I don’t need her stealing my thunder.”
His eyes level me, and his face goes serious as he leans his elbows to his knees. “What do you need from me, little sister? I’m out of my element and don’t have a trick in my bag for this fucked-up situation. What do you want me to do? How do I support you in this?”
“You mean you, Cian Murphy, the methodical planner with a contingency for every little thing, doesn’t have a set of rules for when your sister is deemed incompetent? They’re going to retract your Type-A card and admit you to the loosey-goosey club.”
“Does the loosey-goosey club have good women, because the Type-A club ones are boring.”
A laugh escapes me. So does a lone tear. This is so my big brother. He’s the steady one—meticulous, logical, orderly. He’s pressed slacks and a carwash membership and two mats to wipe your shoes on at the front door. One for the big chucks, another for the fine dust, before leaving them in the corner in the foyer.
He’s who you want running your business and organizing any event. His contingencies have contingencies.
“I so love you.”
“Love you too.” He turns his phone upside down on the end table and extends a hand to me. He helps me off the floor andleads me to the kitchen where I plop down at the island. “Have any wine?”
“Do you really want wine?”
“Not really.I mostly want not to deal with my day.”
“How about an omelet and toast? It’s not over-the-top comfort food, but it’s warm and quick and nutritious enough.”
“Sounds delicious. Ci. What can I do to help?”
“You handle the toast. I’ll get the rest. What do you want in yours?”
We set about the kitchen, working in tandem as I’m sure we have many times. When I’ve got the bread in the machine, but haven’t pressed the lever, I put my hip to the counter. “Have you told Liam?”
He nods before turning to face me. “I texted him. He’s on his way back from Durango. Said he would come by here before going home. You want to call him and ask if he wants breakfast?” He uses the spatula to gesture to the pan with the sizzling eggs.
I shrug. I do and I don’t. I want both of my brothers with me. But I don’t want to have to acknowledge what Liam already knows… my mentalinsufficiencyaccording to the world around us. But I need him. “I guess.”
I extend my hand to my brother in a gimme gesture for his phone and scroll to Liam’s name and, after releasing a huge breath, press his contact.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah?It’s been forever and I get ayeah. Not a good evening, not a what’s up, sis? But yeah. I see how it is.”
“Ayla-girl.” The words are a comfort to me. He’s the only one who calls me that and somehow, the tears start to well.
“Li. Are you”—the wind and the road noise remind me of summer—“on your bike?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s dark out.”
The low rumble of his annoyed laugh meets me. “Headlights, Ayla. They put them in cars now too.”
“Shut up, ass munch. You know I worry.”
“Love you too, sis. Love you too.”
