Blaze

12. No News is Good News

Jackie's the one who sees it. She says nothing—only points. Our eyes follow her finger through white rings of heated light, melting slightly into liquid from the strain. At some point we see it too, despite the blur.

"She's back," Austin whispers.

She's back.

I stand up. Although my legs feel strange, my heart is calm. Almost too calm.

She's back.

The van chugs forward slowly, like something halfway into sleep. Dust eats away at the surface of its skin, sliding on the windshield. Like dislodged freckles is the first thought that burns through my mind. The frame jiggles and looks loose—shoulders shrugging. The wheels bounce and slump. There's a sound like a throaty roar.

Eventually the van swerves onto the path that leads to our house and stills.

I still don't believe it. I still don't believe it's her. I won't believe it until I see her face for myself. Until someone carries her into her wheelchair. Until her thin hair falls all around her thin face and curtains her wrinkles. I don't want to believe it. Not yet. I can't believe it and find out later it's not her.

Austin's running, at full speed, face seeking, legs supple. I can't tell which is brighter: his smile, or his eyes. (Or the imprint of the sky on my eyes.)

Jackie lets out a sigh (but I catch her brief smile before it slips off her face); she gets up and joins my brother.

I watch them for a moment. Watch Austin open the door.

Then I run too, and silence streams on my back, slapping it. I almost trip.

This silence is loud.

---

Mother sits with two paper-coloured hands on either side of the steering wheel. Her hair is darkened by sweat and her thin lips so pinched they seem to have been erased. And when she turns to face us I half-expect a creaking noise as her neck shifts. Something grating and mechanical. Something terrible.

She's alive.

I think.

The water pails are covered and strapped in the backseat.

God. She's alive.

It feels like a bubble rises then bursts in my chest when her hands move, unclasping the seatbelt she must only wear because of habit.

Austin lets out a dusty laugh and traps her in a gentle embrace.

Jackie smiles—for real this time.

Then I'm laughing, too, and I don't even try to stop it. I let myself laugh, although it hurts a little and burns my chest (a lot). Mother's like a limp puppet in Austin's arms, Jackie's lips form a half-crescent, and I laugh.

The feeling, the wave, the bubble make me spin. I should stop it all—but I don't. Because of the shine in Austin's eyes. Because of the stupid things he told me, earlier. Because of the way Jackie looks at him now and seems a little less broken. The sky leaks comfortable warmth and light that won't blind me. My chest is filled with bubbles—bubbles rising, popping, rising again (it tickles), or lifting me slightly with them.

She's back.

---

"Cameron," she says, and all the noise stops, and I'm no longer made of light. Her voice is muffled by the drummer in my chest. Heat shrouds my head.