by Cecilia Lyra
When the doctor arrives, Cassie tells her the same thing. Dr. Adams is a thin woman with a long nose and deep cheekbones who looks like she hasn’t slept a day in her life. I fight the urge to open my makeup bag and cover up the blue circles under her eyes.
Dr. Adams raises her eyebrows. “Not even Ibuprofen? Tylenol?”
“That’s fine,” Cassie says. “Just nothing strong.”
Dr. Adams nods somberly, then glances my way. “Is this your friend?”
“I’m her sister,” I say at the same time that Cassie slices the air with her hands and says, “No.”
Dr. Adams nods. Clearly, our relationship is of no consequence. “We’ll need to run some X-rays before I can be sure, maybe an ultrasound, but right now I’d say it’s a bad sprain.”
“That’s good,” I say.
Cassie rolls her eyes.
This behavior has got to stop.
Dr. Adams leaves. We’re back to waiting, this time for the X-rays.
“You don’t have to be here,” Cassie says when we’re alone.
I look at her, my mouth agape. “Are you planning on driving home?”
“I can take a cab,” she mumbles.
“Fine.” I reach for her car keys in my purse and stuff them into her hand with a little too much force. I love Cassie, and I can appreciate that she’s in pain. But this hostile attitude is completely unacceptable. Enough is enough. “But I’m taking a cab, too.”
She shrugs and avoids my gaze.
I’m about to leave when I feel the hooks of indignation forcing me to turn around. “You know I didn’t push you, right?”
“What?” Her face looks like a crumpled-up sheet of paper.
“You’re acting like it’s my fault you’re here.”
“Shut up, Julie.” Her tone is low, breathy.
Oh, she did not just say that. “Why are you so rude all the time?”
She juts out her chin imperiously. “So what if I am?”
“You’re right, so what!” I glare at her. “Why should you be polite?”
“Cut the act, Julie.” Her look nearly chokes me. “I’m not falling for it.”
I blink. “Not falling for what?”
“I know, OK?” she narrows her eyes at me. “I know what you’ve been hiding.”
My legs feel watery. Could she really know? I feel sirens blaring inside my head. I need to get out of here. I can’t face her. Not if she knows what I did. But then she speaks again.
“I know about you and our father.”
And then she looks away.
Thirty-Three
Cassie
Wednesday, July 18th
When Dante Alighieri wrote about the nine circles of hell in the Divine Comedy he forgot about one. It comes right after Treachery. It’s bright and white—a deceitful detail, one that people associate with heaven—filled with the rhythmic sounds of oxygen machines and the quiet beeps of electronic devices. It tricks you into letting your guard down, fools you into thinking that you’re safe. That’s how evil it is.
The tenth circle of hell is called a hospital.
Nurses. Doctors. Staff. All of them wearing uniforms, some with name tags and caps and special equipment around their necks. To some—those who don’t know better—this is a comforting sight. It means that things are going to be OK. It means an army of people are here to help you. To keep you safe.
To me, it’s the opposite. It’s despair.
I avoid hospitals like the plague. But when I do come, I’m on high alert. I pay attention to everything that’s said to me, take note of every medication prescribed. I even record my conversations with the doctors.
I can handle being at a hospital to support my loved ones. I was there for Daniel when he had his not-quite heart attack. And when Christina had appendicitis.
But I cannot be here as a patient. Not when all I have is Julie.
Never mind that she’s too focused on herself to pay attention to anything of consequence—the nurse who checked my blood pressure could’ve sedated me and she wouldn’t have noticed—or that she can’t drive. The worst part is putting up with her wounded-bird routine. Typical Julie: making everything about her.
Thank God the doctor is a no-nonsense woman. The last thing I need is an inexperienced, pimple-faced idiot who spends his time drooling over Julie.
Why is this room so small? My thoughts are jumbled. I’m hyperventilating. I don’t want to be here. My ankle is fine. Except it’s not. I knew it wasn’t when the words take me to the hospital came out of my mouth.
I am trying my best to stay calm, to steady myself, but how can I when Julie is being narcissistic, saying this isn’t her fault? As if I’ve accused her of twisting my ankle with her bare hands. I want to scream at her. But I don’t. She is so self-absorbed. I’m not spelling it out for her.
But she presses on, calls me impolite. And I snap, revealing what I know about her and our father. A jolt of fear flashes through her eyes, but it only lasts a second. Soon, she’s performing again. Pretending.
“What are you talking about?” She stares at me blankly. Her acting skills are impressive. “What about dad?”
“Just shut up. The last thing I want is to deal with the two of you here.”
A startled look. I expect her to turn around and leave. But then she frowns, confused. She throws her designer purse on a metal chair and walks over to me. Now, her hand is on my forehead.
“What are you doing?”
“I think you hit your head or something.” Her tone is soft.
I swat her hand away. “I didn’t hit my head.”
“You must’ve hit something. You’re not making any sense. Dad isn’t here, Cassie.”
“Christ, how long are you going to keep this up?” My breathing is labored, my head throbbing. But I can’t stop now. “I heard you talking to him earlier. And I saw him here. I know he’s on the island.”
“What are—” But she doesn’t get to finish her sentence because a nurse walks in. My eyes dart to his name tag—Jenkins. He looks efficient. Short, African-American, buzz cut, sensible shoes, no smile (happy people are inefficient people).
“Miss Meyers, we need to get you into X-ray.”
I nod. Another nurse is behind him with a wheelchair. I hate those almost as much as I hate hospitals. I shut my eyes, just for a second, just so I don’t lose it. I will not think of that night.
I see Julie gripping her fingers into the fabric of the bed. I see it happening: her brain finally rotating its cogs. She understands. In a second, her face is flooded with pity.
“Cassie,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known…”
“Is everything OK?” the nurse asks.
“Everything’s fine,” I tell Nurse Jenkins.
“Can I come with her?” Julie asks, looking at Nurse Jenkins with watery eyes.
If she starts crying, I’ll punch her in the face.
Nurse Jenkins nods, then helps me into the wheelchair. I have to give him credit for not staring at Julie like a panting dog.
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
“Please. I want to come. I didn’t realize. I’m an idiot.”
I’m not about to disagree with that.
Our eyes meet. It’s all spelled out on her face. The sympathy, the sadness.
She remembers that day as clearly as I do.
Thirty-Four
Julie
It was supposed to be a happy day. I was Cassie’s first call on the Tuesday she got the letter.
“I got in!” she cried on the other end of the line. There was no need to specify where she got in—and not just because we spoke in the shorthand of sisters. It was The Dream.
We were both going to Boston University.
“Sophie is saying I’ll have to live at home,” I told her. It had been two days since Sophie had relayed this bit of information to me. I had cried and cursed—but I hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Cassie. It felt wrong to tell her before I knew if she�
�d been accepted to BU. Besides, I didn’t want to make it real. I have no idea why I chose that moment to break the news. Cassie’s moment.
She asked me why. The obvious answer didn’t even occur to her. It never did.
“Boarding is too expensive.”
“Can’t you talk to our father?”
It was a subject that roamed around us like dust motes sparkling in the sunlight, barely visible but always there. Katherine’s family came from money. Most of what Cassie had—the colonial house on Dover, the flashy cars, the trust fund—came from her mother. Daddy made a nice living, but he also had his own expensive tastes. I’d gotten into BU on a scholarship. Not a full ride, but enough that it helped. Dad and Sophie had set aside some money for me, too. But the bulk of my tuition would be coming from student loans.
“He’s already helping out with tuition.”
“Shoot,” she muttered. “I can try to—”
“No.” I knew what she was going to offer, and I didn’t want it. Cassie wouldn’t have access to her trust fund until she was twenty-one. I really didn’t want her going to her mother, making up some story about why she needed thousands of dollars.
“We could ask Nana?”
“Maybe,” I said. But I knew I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to be the charity case. I had to fix this myself. “I’m looking into taking more loans.”
The Dream was BU mostly because of Cassie. If it were up to me, we’d go to the opposite coast, to California or Oregon—far away from Sophie. But Cassie refused. She needed to be close to her mother. Katherine’s mental health was precarious. I knew how much this conflicted Cassie: she resented her mother for not being able to take care of herself, but at the same time she felt a parent-like responsibility towards her.
Like I said: it was supposed to be a happy day. But I was in a funk.
“We’ll figure something out,” Cassie said. “It’s The Dream.”
It was. We came up with The Dream as children. It was simple: Cassie and I would go to the same school. Any good school in Boston would do. We’d finally get to share the same space year-round, like proper sisters. I am not exaggerating when I say that it’s what kept me going all through high school.
“What do you say we celebrate on Thursday? I can meet you in the city. We’ll go to Stephanie’s.” Cassie was so happy, she sounded like a bird chirping.
“Maybe.” I knew I sounded like a big baby.
“Come on, Jul. We’ll figure something out. You’ll still get to go.”
I was about to agree when I heard Katherine’s voice in the background.
“Hold on, Mom,” Cassie called out to her. “I’m on the phone with Mimi.”
Mimi was my alias. If Katherine wanted to know where Cassie was going when she was out with me, she’d say Mimi. Mimi and Cassie were very good friends.
I heard Katherine mumble something to Cassie.
“I’d better go,” Cassie said. “Don’t let this get to you. It’ll all work out. It always does.” She hung up.
I was mad at Cassie. It was completely irrational of me, but I was devastated. The idea of living with Sophie during my college years sounded as appealing as being dropped into a pot of water and being slowly boiled to death. I expected more sympathy from Cassie. We didn’t have the same mom, but she’d always understood what it feels like to want—no, to need—to move out. Being stuck with Sophie for another four years, maybe more, meant that everything would continue to be about her. Her house. Her rules. Her life.
It was all Katherine’s fault. If Katherine weren’t so intent on staying married to Dad even though she didn’t love him, none of our problems would exist. My mom would be married to my dad. Cassie would probably come live with us—Katherine was not fit to be a single parent. Nana would have to welcome my mom into the family. Katherine was responsible for everything that was wrong with my life. Katherine and her stupid money. The money she used to control our dad.
I crawled into bed to take a nap. For once, I didn’t tell myself to snap out of it. Didn’t force myself to be cheery and optimistic. It felt freeing, allowing myself to indulge in my own resentment for a while. I’d spent far too long using other people—Sophie, my dad, Cassie, even Nana—as my emotional barometers. If they were happy, then I was happy.
Well, I wasn’t happy.
I was happy for Cassie, of course. Happy she got into BU and that we’d be able to go to the same school. But if I had to live at home, then, no—I wasn’t going to be happy. I was going to be upset. I was going to sulk. Like any normal teenager.
Looking back, that’s what undid me: allowing myself to feel. My heart took over—my brain was replaced as the driver. And hearts are irrational, fickle things.
That’s when Sophie called. She’d forgotten to pay the phone bill. Again. Could I do it? It wasn’t really a question. When I stormed into her room to find the stupid paper with the stupid barcode so I could go to the stupid bank and pay the stupid bill, I wasn’t just sad or angry. I was done.
The first picture I saw on Sophie’s nightstand was of my dad looking at her as she smiled to the camera. Her lips were slightly parted, caught in the moment before her smile turned into a grin. Her dark hair was loose against the wind. She looked so happy, at ease. And Dad looked like what he was: a man in love. Anyone who saw that picture would immediately understand they belonged together. That their love was real. Meant to be. I was the fruit of that love—of the passion I knew they shared.
It wasn’t fair that Katherine got to have Dad as a proper husband while Sophie had to settle for a life of sneaking around. Sophie made him happier than Katherine ever could. I knew that because all Cassie talked about was her parents’ unhappy marriage. She sometimes contemplated telling Katherine about Dad and Sophie—but she was afraid her mother would hate her.
It was such a waste. If Katherine knew about Sophie, she’d kick Dad out of the house. He’d be upset, but only for a minute. He’d move in with Sophie and they’d find a way to pay for room and board in college, because if there’s one thing those two loved, it was being alone. As their daughter, I was constantly being asked to “go to the store” because they wanted the place for themselves.
The idea hit me like a virus: taking up all the space, eating away any trace of common sense and restraint inside me. It happened when I was going through Sophie’s desk, looking for the bill, and accidentally knocked off her memory box. It was heart-shaped and red, filled with pictures of our family. There must have been at least one hundred snapshots of us throughout the years. I bent over to scoop them up, happy faces staring at me.
Me as a little girl on Daddy’s shoulders, feeding the ducks at the park. Dad and Sophie posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The three of us at the aquarium. Dad and me at Cheers on Government Center—Sophie had taken the picture. Dozens of snapshots of holidays, most of them—all of them, I think—celebrated on the wrong day: Christmas on the twenty-sixth, Easter one full week before. All so Dad could be there with us. We looked so freaking happy.
The smiling faces on those pictures made me even angrier. Like being drunk, only I’d consumed fury—not alcohol. I wanted this happiness to be known, to be acknowledged. The three of us, we were a family.
I yanked an envelope from Sophie’s drawer, wrote down Katherine’s name and address on it, my grip on the pen so strong it almost dug its way through the envelope. I grabbed a handful of pictures, stuffed them inside the envelope, and stormed out the house, fueled by my determination not to be invisible anymore.
I don’t remember if I stopped by the post office before or after the bank.
Two days later, Katherine was dead.
Thirty-Five
Cassie
My mom was already dead when the paramedics burst into our house.
She was found lying on the living room floor next to an empty bottle of pills she’d taken hours before, but they still took her to the hospital. It was protocol.
I’d been out since early in the morning—I
left my house before my mother was up. After school, I went to the mall with some friends, and then I met up with Julie. My father called me when we were at my favorite restaurant, Stephanie’s, on Newbury Street. It was our celebratory dinner. I remember Julie being worried about money to pay for room and board. I was, too. It seems like such a small thing now.
At first, my brain didn’t register what my father was saying.
Come to the hospital. It’s your mother.
When I told Julie what happened, she froze. I had to do it all by myself: get up, call a server, pay the bill. All while Julie stared at me with an expression of dread. I was used to being the one in charge, but I needed her then. I needed her to step up. She only got up when I shook her—literally. We got in a cab and rushed to the hospital.
When we got there, Julie was asked to wait at reception. Only family was allowed inside, a nurse explained. It says a lot about my mental state that I didn’t pick a fight with the nurse, that I didn’t set him straight, telling him that Julie was absolutely family, even if she wasn’t related to my mom. I saw my father sitting on the floor outside a room. His knees were bent, his head was almost between his legs, a version of the fetal position that made his large frame seem shrunken to the point of irrelevance. The doctor came out of nowhere and told us they’d done everything they could. My mom had taken too many pills. Strong pills. They’d been in her system too long. At first, I didn’t understand that he’d meant on purpose. I kept asking him how many pills she took—she always took more than normal anyway. Surely there was something they could do. But then he explained that it was an entire bottle. And I knew: she had done it on purpose. She’d wanted to die.
I screamed, loudly. I also lunged at my father, asking what he’d done to make her want to take her own life. I remember someone grabbing me—nurses, maybe security—but not before I managed to scratch my father’s cheek. His sobbing face now had an ugly red mark.