The Other Brother (Binghamton #4)
Meghan Quinn
Prologue
AARON
Eighteen years ago . . .
“Room two seventeen.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling shy. I wish Dad came with me instead of getting me through the doors and then leaving. I wish he was holding my hand, telling me everything was going to be okay.
I know I’ve done this before, I’ve been in this position once already, but I still feel nervous, kind of sick to my stomach.
With my hands stuffed in my front pockets and my head turned down, lifted only enough to read the numbers on the doors, I make my way through the sterile hallway. Last time I was here, the hallways were busier, full of people working, making their way in and out of the rooms, but this time, it’s quiet, almost as if I’m the only one visiting.
Two fifteen.
Two sixteen.
Two seventeen.
Standing outside the room, I take a deep breath and stare at the number in front of me. Last time she was in room two twelve. I wonder if this one will look the same, have the same setup. I hope there is a couch in it like last time.
Gripping the inside of my pockets, I take another deep breath and push the door open.
The air is still, the smell is almost warm, and the only light coming into the room is from the half-opened blinds. Sitting on the bed, with her legs crossed and a baby in her arms, is my mom. Her dark brown hair is pulled back and the belly she once had is much smaller. She looks happy as she stares down at my brother, happier than I’ve seen her in a while.
Taking a step forward, I nervously say, “Hi, Mom.”
When she looks up at me, she smiles brightly. “Aaron, come here. Come meet your brother.”
Brother.
Another one. I wonder if he will look like me, if he will have my eyes, my hair, my nose.
“Do I need to take off my shoes or anything?” I ask, nervous I’m going to get the room dirty.
Mom chuckles. “No, baby. You can leave your shoes on.”
“It’s just last time, I had to.” I walk toward her, hands still in my pockets as I approach.
Mom tilts the baby in my direction. The first thing that comes to mind is, he’s so small . . . and he looks nothing like me.
“He’s all red and puffy.”
“It’s because he’s still brand new. His color will change and his swelling will go down.” She pats the bed. “Would you like to hold him?”
I nod, even though I feel a little shaky in my arms.
Mom scoots over on the bed, making room for me. I keep one leg on the floor to the side for balance and tuck my other leg under me as I sit. Mom’s flowery perfume hits me, sending a wave of ease through my bones.
Home.
That smell. It reminds me of my mom. It reminds me of the good days. Of the early days. Of the days when I was loved . . .
“Put your arms out.” I do as I’m told and she places my brother in my arms. “He’s not heavy at all, is he?”
“No. He’s so little.”
“He’s the smallest out of you three. I was surprised actually when the nurse called out his measurements. I guess that would make him the runt.”
“Maybe that’s what I’ll call him.” I smile at my mom.
She presses her hand against my cheek lovingly. “You can call him whatever you would like, baby.” She looks behind her at the door that leads to the hallway, and her leg starts to bounce. “Are you okay with him? Can I go to the bathroom, take a shower maybe?”
“Uh, yeah. I can hold him.” I look at the little bundle in my arms and then back at my mom. “Does he need to be fed or anything?”
She shakes her head. “No, he should be good. Just hold him and talk to him, let him hear your voice.”
“Okay.” I nod.
Mom gathers some things into her arms and heads into the attached bathroom, leaving me alone with my brother.
This is weird. Talk to a baby? What do I say?
I take him in. His eyes are closed so he can’t see me. His lips are barely parted, which is kind of cute, and his fingers are really long for such a little guy. I was hoping I’d be able to tell if he looks like me but right now, there is no telling.
I clear my throat and lean back on the propped-up bed. “Hi, Runt. I’m Aaron, your big brother.” I move the blanket he’s wrapped in lower so I can see his face better. “I’m actually twelve years older than you. So I guess that makes me your really big brother.”
His head moves to the side and his lips parts, forming an O that makes me laugh.
“For having a squish face, you’re still cute.” The shower in the bathroom turns on. “I’m not your only brother. You have another one. I call him Tyke. He doesn’t look anything like me. And I can’t tell if you look like either of us because your face is all scrunched up.” Leaning forward, I say, “I kind of hope you look like me more than him. Even though I’m older than you, it would be cool if you were a mini-me. When we’re older, we can trick people. That would be awesome.”
I slip my finger into his little grasp and let him squeeze my finger tightly.
“Wow, that’s a good grip for a runt.” I laugh to myself.
And then I smell a familiar scent.
My head snaps up to the bathroom. I would know that smell anywhere. She promised she would stop.
She always promises . . .
But never keeps them.
A light sweat starts to coat my forehead. Can anyone else smell it? I don’t know if smoking is allowed in hospitals. Will she get us thrown out? It’s not like it would be the first place we’ve been thrown out of because of something she’s done or said.
I just don’t want to be thrown out of here. I don’t want to have to leave too early.
There is a knock at the door and panic starts to fill me, flipping my stomach upside down. I hold Runt closer to my body, protecting him as I call out. “Yes?”
“Hi, it’s Diane and Trevor, can we come in?”
My heart sputters in my chest making me feel very anxious and uncomfortable. “Uh yeah. Come in,” I call out, knowing I can’t push them away.
Quietly they walk in, bags of food in their hands, smiles on their faces, and decked out in some of the nicest clothes I’ve ever seen. It puts the polo shirt I got at a garage sale for today to shame.
“Aaron, it’s so great to see you,” Diane says as she sets the food she brought down on the table next to the bed.
“Hi,” I say sheepishly, pulling Runt even closer.
“Hey, big guy, how’s it hanging?” Trevor asks while he wraps an arm around Diane. It’s the type of affection I see on TV or in movies—a husband with his arm wrapped around his wife—but I’ve never seen it in person. Maybe it’s because Mom and Dad aren’t married. Does being married make you more affectionate?
“Where’s your mom?” Diane looks around and spots the closed bathroom door. I see her sniff the air, which causes me to panic even more. Can she smell it? Does she know Mom’s smoking? Is she going to report us?
“Taking a shower,” I answer shyly.
Either Diane doesn’t smell it or she chooses not to say anything, because she nods and then looks at Runt. “You’re getting to meet your brother. What do you think?”