CHAPTER 7
Sam
My sister is dead.
So is my mother.
When Kassie was born, I used to pretend I was her mom. I would wrap her in a blanket, then gingerly place her in a hidden corner of the bedroom to find her—all the while fantasizing that I had simply gone for a walk in the woods and discovered a miracle baby propped against a tree, left there by a stranger who secretly wanted me to take care of her.
It was a game of little-girl fantasy, and for two months during my eighth summer, I played the game every chance I could. At the first sign of Kassie stirring from a nap, I would tiptoe to her crib and bring her into my bedroom—taking care to avoid my mother discovering us. My mother hated the game, scolded me each time she caught Kassie lying on my carpeted floor wearing nothing but a diaper and a grin. But I loved my baby sister, could never see any cause for my mother’s concern. After all, Kassie was always happy…always well taken care of. I was, in my eight-year-old mind, my sister’s rescuer. Her savior.
I couldn’t save Kassie this time.
This time, I had a direct hand in harming her.
I will forever hate myself for it.
I bought the concert tickets. I told her she could stay for the meet-and-greet, even though it was well past her curfew and I knew better. I backed out last minute and told her to invite a friend instead. For one night, I didn’t feel like being a mother. I just wanted to be a sister, just wanted a night at home by myself to watch movies, take a bath, be rid of responsibility. One stress-free night didn’t seem like too much to hope for. But nothing good happens after midnight. Hadn’t that thought nagged me a dozen times? I ignored it and indirectly killed my sister.
I was the irresponsible one. I was the careless one. I can’t unbuy the tickets. I can’t undo my decision to let her stay. I can’t get the blood off my hands.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shaking shoulders, curl into a ball on my bed, and shiver through the memories. After twenty four hours, they hit harder than ever.
Yes, that’s my sister, I told the coroner.
No, there is no other next of kin. Just me.
Even though that isn’t entirely true.
I’m just the only family who will cry about Kassie’s death. The only family who will care. The only family who will remember enough about her to keep any sort of legacy alive. It’s a lonely feeling to be solely responsible for the memories of so many.
I used to fantasize about marriage and kids and white picket fences, but that dream is a dead one now. Twenty-five with nothing to look forward to. Some people have the Midas touch, other’s dip their fingers in sticky, permanent black ink. Smudged. Unlucky. A jinx who leaves evidence everywhere. I’m that person, to others and to myself. Who wants to date a girl who loses everything? When you’re that girl, it’s a risk you can’t afford to take. It would leave you standing empty-handed again.
I shudder involuntarily at the direction my thoughts have headed and make myself stand up. There’s no escaping the darkness that has descended, and I have no illusions of it ever leaving, but there is so much to do. So many people to call. So many friends who deserve to hear the news from me. Considering the circumstances, it won’t take long for the story to make headlines. Maybe it already has.
First I have to start with my dad.
The news won’t register. He’ll stare at me, unable to see anything but a time that passed more than two decades ago, lost in a world that existed before me, before Kassie, even before my mother. It’s been over a year since he last lit up at the sight of my face, even longer since he remembered my name. But that doesn’t absolve me of the responsibility.
I drag my car keys off the counter, pull on a pair of slippers that hopefully pass for shoes, and make it to my car. It only takes a few minutes to pull into a parking spot at Maplewood Care Center—the closest and best nursing home in Springfield. I rented my apartment last year based on location alone. With work and Kassie and so many other things to take care of, I needed my dad close, if for no other reason than to make the routine more bearable.
Now even that seems laughable.
It takes only one glance at the nurse’s station to know that the news proceeded my arrival. Heads dip. Eyes dart away. The name Cory Minor floats over the area in a series of hushed whispers. Everyone busies themselves with paperwork and chart-flipping and refilling cups of coffee. Everyone except for Phyllis. Always Phyllis. The woman’s soul is as light as her skin is dark—there is no in-between with her. She comes around the counter and pulls me into a motherly hug so tight that it steals my breath and ushers in tears. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real hug that I barely remember the sensation. It’s warm, comforting, all-encompassing. Phyllis hugs with an abandonment rare for most people because she knows the secret: that humans need contact to thrive, that a broken heart is only one crack away from a broken spirit, and that both can be mended by smoothing on thin layers of love. With Phyllis, if you felt unloved before one of her hugs, it’s impossible to feel that way after.
“It’s okay, baby,” she sing-whispers over and over as we rock back and forth. I let her sway us along, comforted by the feel of her hand patting the back of my head. “You go ahead and cry. Cry it all out and then cry some more. I hear your heart. I don’t mind your tears.”
It’s a good thing, because I manage to shed buckets before I finally break away. The tension from the other women in the reception area is palpable until Phyllis sweeps her gaze over everyone in a message to stop staring. Immediately papers shuffle along with feet until Phyllis and I are the only ones left standing still.
“Don’t you worry about them, sweetie,” she says, pulling a tissue from the box on the counter and handing it to me. “They’re all just worked up right now, what with this involving a celebrity and all.” I don’t ask how they know. It’s probably not something I want to hear anyway. “Is there anything you need from me? Do you want me to go in there with you?” She nods toward room twelve. My father waits behind that door like he’s waited for two years now. We both stare at the brown paint, taking in all it represents.
Finality.
Heartbreak.
Isolation.
All reserved for me, because I’m the only one who will feel the impact.
I wipe underneath my eyes and ball the tissue in my fist. “No, I need to do it by myself.”
She nods, then bites her lip on a frown. I know what she’s going to say before the words escape. “Honey, you know your daddy’s not going to—”
“I know.” I nod once, filled with resignation. “I know it won’t matter to him. He doesn’t even know who we are anymore.” Grief stabs at my insides at the familiar we. There is no we. Now it’s just me. “But I have to tell him anyway. If nothing else, just to know that I did. Maybe someday he’ll wonder where she is, you know? I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d kept the news from him.”
Phyllis reaches for my hand, and I let her hold it. “I understand, baby. You come find me if you need anything at all.”
“I will.”
Phyllis turns and walks down the hall as I stare after her, working up the courage to go inside. And that’s the thing about visiting a patient with Alzheimer’s, it always takes courage to visit, because you never know what you might find when you show up. One day, a welcoming attitude. One day, recognition. One day, nothing but anger. One day, foul words and empty threats. You might even get hit.
It’s been months since my father gave me anything but a blank stare. I’ve spent the past year resenting his condition, but today I’d like to trade places with him and forget everything around me. Ignorance is bliss I suppose, but that’s something I’ll never have the benefit of knowing.
I push my way inside the room, then tell the man who raised me that his youngest daughter died yesterday in a horrible accident. That the wreck had already made headlines…that everyone would soon be talking about it simply for the notoriety of it all.
I don’t expect him to care.
I don’t expect him to recognize me.
My father doesn’t disappoint.
* * *
“Daddy, do you understand what I’m telling you?” I scoot forward in my seat and reach for his hand. As normally happens, he pulls back before I connect and grips the blanket on his lap. Physical contact agitates him; the lack of it crushes me.
He glances at me for a moment, then begins to rub his thumb and fingers in a circular motion—a bewildering pattern that began nearly a year ago and has grown increasingly confusing since. Alzheimer’s patients find comfort in patterns, all of which start without warning and grow in frequency until patterns become the only movements they make.
He circles while I wait for him to speak. The words are always the same.
“When am I going home? My momma isn’t here yet, but she’s coming to take me home. Any minute now, she’ll be here to take me home.”
My grandmother has been dead more than two decades. My father remembers only the boy he used to be, not the man who married a beautiful woman and raised two daughters.
“I’m sure she’ll be here any minute, Daddy.” My voice breaks. “Do you mind if I sit here and wait with you until she shows up?” I have nowhere else to go, no one else who needs me. No one is going to show up. Maybe no one ever will. My dad doesn’t respond, so I do the only thing I know.
I sit back in my chair and stare out the window, trying not to notice the way his hand hasn’t stopped. It still circles back and forth, like he’s smoothing out a pizza crust, in a pattern he doesn’t know he’s making. It’s the only thing about my father that stays the same anymore.
I blink at the skyline visible through the window, knowing the only thing waiting out there for me is a funeral home.