The Sister-in-Law by Pamela Crane (best books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📕

from a woman who demanded attention by merely existing. ‘But you’re gorgeous. How could you ever think you’re not pretty enough?’

‘I’m talking about true beauty, the kind that doesn’t wash off. The beauty that gives power to move mountains and the stamina to create a diamond from coal. I have nothing to offer the world. I want purpose. I want the furor, everything I’ve been through, to mean something.’

Weren’t we all searching for meaning?

‘Then you’ve got to endure and find those lessons in life that will lead you toward your destiny. I believe that if you hold on tight enough to this life, it will guide you to where you’re supposed to go.’ I was preaching to myself.

‘Is that what motherhood is? The purpose we’re looking for?’

‘I don’t think it’s enough. While it’s everything, it’s also nothing. One day the kids are gone and then where does that leave you? Empty. Motherhood takes every bit of you, and some days it’s hard to smile when you’ve given your all and have nothing left for yourself.’

‘You make it sound complicated.’

‘Sometimes it is.’

As Candace propped her new ultrasound frame up beside her bedside lamp, my eyes were drawn to Noah’s picture. It could have been his popular nineties heartthrob looks – a throwback to My So-Called Life-era Jared Leto, yum – but a familiarity seeped into me. How did I know this man? Why would I know this man?

‘Does Noah know where you and the baby are?’

‘I don’t know, but if I ran into him, he’d never get the chance to hurt me ever again.’ Her hand curled into a fist. Candace was capable of more than she gave herself credit for. It was frightening what a cornered woman was capable of.

Chapter 18

Lane

The click … click … click … of a man in a walker shuffling past the open door of Ms. Eidenschink’s hospital room blended with the beep … beep … beep of her heart monitor. The man’s open-backed hospital gown gave ample view of his wrinkled ass connected to bony, ashen legs. His body was mere parts, unusable and ready for donation. In this job, I was reminded daily of the fragility of life.

The patients I tended to were like ghosts, just waiting to fade away. Only a year ago Ms. Eidenschink had been living on her own, tending to her cat Lucy in a cluttered house fit for Hoarders. One bad fall and a broken hip cursed her to a bedridden life in a hospital room with little more than a television and the occasional visitor. Every once in a while a woman named Ari Wilburn would stop by and dye Ms. Eidenschink’s snow-white hair the inky black that she preferred. It was the little things that meant a big deal to people bound to their hospital beds.

‘How are we doing today, Ms. Eidenschink?’ I greeted her at the foot of her bed.

She smiled up at me, her full lips painted red, along with one of her teeth. ‘Doing well, Lane. Doing well. Where have you been? I missed seeing you.’

What she meant was she missed flirting with me. Any cute young stud – their words, not mine – was a welcomed treat on this floor. Everyone needed a hot-blooded interest in their life, even if it was the interest of a thirty-something married male nurse.

‘I’ve missed you too. You’re looking good today.’

She waved me off. ‘Nonsense. I look like Frankenstein’s bride.’

With the black hair and red lips, it wasn’t much of a stretch.

‘How is the new bride? Marriage is good, yes?’ Her accent – possibly Polish, though I wasn’t a language expert – covered her words so thickly I felt sorry for her mouth.

She extended her arm for me to take her blood pressure. Where needles probed her veins, her skin had turned into a stormy black and blue. When I finished taking her vitals, she stood, the chair squealing across the tile. Despite every effort, the inch of makeup couldn’t hide the sallow hue of her face.

‘Yes, everything’s good,’ I replied after a beat. ‘Although I’m still having a little trouble with my wife and sister getting along. I’m not sure why they’re at each other’s throats.’

She nodded, as if that was to be expected. ‘Jealousy does that. I can help. I know much about female relationships.’

‘Oh, that’s okay. I’m sure it will work itself out.’ The poor woman didn’t need to be burdened by my family drama.

She clicked her tongue at me. ‘You young people assume we know nothing about life. But you wrong. I know heartbreak, jealousy, revenge. My past not filled with wispy, sepia emotions that have been long forgotten. No, quite the opposite. At my age, the past is all I have. I feed off memories. Pass me your troubles. I help.’

‘Revenge, you say? What do you know of it?’ I asked. She didn’t strike me as the vengeful type.

Beneath penciled-in eyebrows her pupils slipped back and forth, watchful of eavesdropping ears. ‘Oh, that is story for another time. But I will tell you this: revenge is natural form of survival. Your sister and wife both protective of you. They fight to the death for you. Your job is to figure out way to keep them both thinking they are number one.’

We were interrupted by the squeal of the lunch cart being wheeled in by a food service worker. From the looks of him, he spent most of his time around food. Angling sideways through the door, he wiped the perspiration of a workout from his brow.

‘Lunchtime!’ he announced in a thunderous baritone.

While he doled out the food tray, the television hanging in the corner of the room flashed the local news. A ribbon of words scrolled across the bottom. Something about Benjamin Paris. Finding the remote on the bed, I turned up the volume.

‘Durham police have caught a break in a local murder investigation that had been cold for almost two months,’ the news anchor began, ‘In April, investigators received a