Never Said

by Carol Lynch Williams

  “We’re not royalty.”

  The water runs in the sink. Dad’s voice is a murmur in the background.

  “I know that.” Mom gives a ruffled laugh.

  “It was mean. You were mean to her. She has a good idea that could help other people. Maybe help herself. And me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Lifetime movie is back. The front door opens. Slams shut.

  “Great,” Mom says. “Now we have to go after her, Sarah.”

  Like Annie is a bother.

  Or the second-class citizen Mom’s worried my sister will become.

  annie

  These are the rules:

  Be who you are

  Say what you will

  Live your life well

  You are safe here.

  annie

  Safe.

  Here.

  sarah

  Annie’s down the sidewalk, coatless, hands shoved into her pockets.

  Mom speaks from the porch. Her words puncture the night air. “I don’t want you hurt,” she says. “But . . . those kinds of people, that kind of influence . . . It’s not good for you.”

  “Stop talking, Mom,” I say. Part of me is surprised I’ve said anything more to her. That I’ve talked back. But she doesn’t answer, so I follow Annie, leaving my coat behind too, but grabbing mittens and a scarf from the foyer table where I left them when I came in this afternoon. I pull the gloves on. Wrap the scarf around my neck.

  “Annie!”

  The blast of winter hits me full in the face, makes me gasp, and I’m reminded of Garret. Maybe because I can see the lights on over there, see his car parked in his driveway.

  For two weeks, before we started dating, he took me to school.

  Annie had decided she wouldn’t finish out a term, but would home school.

  And Mom needed me to catch a ride into classes. Garret happened to be available.

  The cold bites at me, the wind pushes me back like a hand. Mom’s talking, talking, talking and then the door slams shut and I remember how Garret’d knocked on the door, walked me to the car, opened that door. Big Gulp cups. Everywhere. Front seat. Backseat too.

  “What is all this?” I had said.

  “My collection,” he had answered.

  Now I can see my breath. There’s Annie, jogging in the opposite direction of my used-to-be boyfriend’s house. So much of our lives, I realize as I follow her, is used to be’s.

  I run, purposefully sliding on the ice I see, hitting as much snow as I can so I don’t fall.

  Here’s how I felt about Garret, from the beginning: I’m pretty darn neat as a rule, but I settled myself in that car, kicking the cups out of the way, without a thought.

  The memory makes me warm inside, even with tonight’s low temps. I hurry through the cold. The sidewalk is slicker than I’d thought.

  Oh, I liked him. That morning he’d popped his toothbrush in his mouth and brushed all the way to school. The car smelled minty fresh but looked like a dump.

  “Good dental habits?” I’d said. It took all my courage. My face caught fire.

  Garret smiled.

  I surprised myself then too. Me, shy. But his teeth were white. Did he floss? I hoped so. But I’d hoped he wouldn’t do that while we drove.

  My mouth opened before my brain had a chance to stop it. “You have a great smile.” I spoke like a real person.

  Garret glanced at me. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I had said, almost stuttering.

  It wasn’t long after that he asked me to the movies. Oh, that car! He was cute and I hadn’t minded the Big Gulp cups at all.

  I’m right behind Annie now. She must hear me because she turns, spinning. I put my hands up, like she might strike out. But she walks into my arms and we stand in the cold, shivering, freezing it seems, holding each other. I wrap the scarf half around her, half around me. I give her one glove and we hold bare hands.

  “She doesn’t mean it,” I say. I say this too much. Always protecting her. Them. Annie. When did this become my job? “I’m not sure what’s wrong with her.” With them, I think. With us. “But she’s trying in her weird way.”

  I believe what I say, I realize, as the words tumble out and hit the sidewalk.

  Annie’s teeth chatter. “She means every word.” Annie blows out a cloud of air and it floats above her head like a word bubble. “I started this all. This family change. I realized that when she was talking. My deciding to gain weight, to drown in food, it’s changed everything.”

  The wind pushes at us. Her words push at me. A car drives past, snow crunching under tires. Annie stares into my eyes.

  “They’ve always been like that,” I say. “Money matters. The way we look to others.” I clutch her ungloved hand in mine. My fingers have gone numb, though my palm is still warm. “But underneath the fake crap, they care. She cares. She’s just . . .” I reach for words. “Shallow, and she can’t crawl up from that.”

  The wind whips my hair. Pushes me and Annie closer.

  “We used to matter more,” Annie says. “Before this.” She doesn’t gesture or anything, but I understand what she means. “Before, we mattered.”

  I don’t answer.

  “What?”

  A dog barks. One long, low howl. A door opens and shuts somewhere.

  “Not we,” I say.

  “Tell me. Say it.”

  “You’ve always mattered more.”

  annie

  She’s right. Yes.

  I know it.

  As we walk

  hand in hand

  I’m so embarrassed

  at this truth.

  The scarf around

  neither neck fully.

  One glove each.

  Sarah is right.

  Mom and Dad showed

  They loved me

  more than her.

  And I’m sick

  with this revelation

  I had hoped

  she didn’t know.

  annie

  After our mother’s stupid comments

  and Sarah’s announcement of feeling unloved

  I decide I am done with all this.

  The being overweight.

  The clutching of secrets.

  The listening to my parents, who sound like idiots.

  But I am done on my own terms.

  My.

  Own.

  sarah

  This is what they said: “Sarah, try smiling. Do it like Annie.”

  Walk like her. Laugh like her. Succeed like her.

  I heard it from her friends: “You two are related? Sisters? Twins?”

  And from teachers: “I never would have known the two of you are just minutes apart in age.”

  Dad’s coworkers: “That Annie is something else. And Sarah. Sarah is a shy little thing, isn’t she?”

  From everyone except Garret.

  Once, when we were at school, Annie came flitting up to Garret and me. She was happy about a date that night. Something secret and exciting, she said. Then she was off with Melanie and the rest of the girls.

  “I like your sister,” Garret said as we watched her go. Then he reached over and kissed me. Right there in front of everyone. “But I am so glad you’re you.”

  sarah

  And I was glad to be me when I was with Garret. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much to be alone. Is it even possible to let people know the Invisible Girl is an okay person?

  annie

  After lights out

  I gather the candy

  lay it out on the blanket

  and eat

  till I want to throw

  up.

  sarah

  I’m sleeping when Annie comes into my room. She’s quiet as a shadow. But I wake when I hear the door click shut. It takes a moment for me to realize what’s going on. That she isn’t sleepwalking or coming to borrow something to wear tomorrow.

  She moves like smoke through the roo
m, looks out my window, checks the latch. I don’t say anything. Just lie there.

  Annie checks the closet, looks under the bed. Quiet as a whisper she says, “I’m watching for you, Sarah. That’s what older sisters do. Take care of the babies.”

  The baby? I almost say it.

  Then her words sink into me.

  I’m cold with what she’s said. Like when we stood outside tonight. But this fear is in my chest. Who’s she looking for? How am I a baby?

  Annie stays in my room, waiting on the chair at my desk until I sleep again.

  annie

  If your mother doesn’t protect you

  you have to do it yourself.

  That’s what I have found.

  Found you can’t always rely on the people

  you should be able to rely on.

  Like your father.

  Your father should know better.

  So it’s better than nothing that I check

  on Sarah and I have been checking

  for months now.

  No one else does.

  No one else will.

  I’m scared.

  Scared of what I can do.

  Of what someone else might do.

  Scared for my sister.

  For me.

  For me.

  annie

  Up close.

  Too close.

  I feel his breath.

  His hands.

  How he wants me.

  The pressure.

  I awake with a start.

  wednesday

  sarah

  In the morning, I catch Annie in the bathroom we share.

  I think of her in my room last night. Was it a dream?

  My hand is on the doorknob. It’s cool under my fingertips. No. She was there.

  Annie’s sat in my room while I slept before. It’s just never felt so odd.

  That chilly feeling is back.

  My sister leans close to the mirror, peering at herself from all angles. She’s showered, wearing her towel tucked around her chest. There’s no black eye makeup. Her hair is slicked back. The earrings glitter. Annie purses her lips, pouts, gives herself a sultry stare.

  As I back from the room, leaving her to the mirror modeling, she says, “Hey, Sarah” in this voice like pudding.

  “Oh!” I’m embarrassed, like I was caught posing.

  “You can stay if you want.” Annie turns to me. Adjusts the towel. Her toenails are a shiny pink. Pink? They’ve been black for months now. “I want you to. We can talk.” She hesitates. “Do you want to talk?”

  I step onto the warm tile. The orange-y odor of the soap Mom buys from Milton’s Herb Shop scents the room.

  “Yes,” I say. “I do.” I turn on the water and wet my face.

  This bathroom is all our mom, from the pink-and-white wallpaper to the matching pink towels with satin edging. Everything reflects in the mirrors.

  When I’ve dried my face, I brush my teeth then add a touch of conditioner through my hair, taming the curls.

  “Annie?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Last night?” I try to think how to say this. “Who were you watching for?”

  My sister pauses. Glances at me, side-eyed. “I’ve been checking on you since you were little,” she says. “When we shared a bed, I sat up late, watching over you.”

  I don’t respond.

  Does she know about Garret in my room after hours?

  She wouldn’t look for him. Would she? This was something else. Something scary.

  “Since we were little?” I say.

  She’s taken black liner to her eyes. But she doesn’t apply it as thick. In fact, she reminds me of Before. The light touch. The fine line.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “You’ve always needed taking care of,” Annie says. “Besides, there are times I can’t sleep.” She shrugs. “I peek around the house. Look in on you. Check on Mom and Dad.”

  Annie turns. Stares at her image in the mirror. “Did you know,” she says, using a voice that could be in a documentary, “that fat people have fewer wrinkles?”

  It’s been a long time since we’ve been in here getting ready at the same time. I hadn’t realized until now that I missed this.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s true. Look at us both.” She pulls me to her side. Clutches at my elbow. Makes me look at us. The Twins Who Are So Different. “No wrinkles. For either of us actually.”

  “Wrinkles?” I ask. “We turned sixteen a month ago.”

  “I know.”

  “That makes no sense,” I say. “Neither of us . . .” Then I’m laughing. Hard. Crumpled over. There’s still a bit of toothpaste on my mouth. Annie looks at me. She raises her eyebrows. Then she lets out this laugh I haven’t heard in forever, a belly laugh. Huge. Loud.

  Man, it feels good to laugh with her like this. I’ve missed my sister.

  I rinse my hands, bits of giggles splashing down the drain with the warm water. Annie comes closer. Flattens my hair with her palms. “You have the best hair,” she says. And pat pat pats at me.

  “I used to want your hair.” I stop. “I didn’t mean that.”

  She shakes her hair at me. “Don’t want it anymore?”

  I feel my eyes widen.

  “It’s okay. Chopping off one’s own hair can have ugly results.”

  Then she says, “Sarah? Do you think I’m sexy?”

  She’s serious, though there’s laughter leftover in her voice. Will she dance around singing in her off-key voice that old, old song Mom used to listen to when we were little? But Annie asks again, “Do you?”

  “What do you mean?” I wipe my hands free of water and leftover conditioner.

  I know what she means because I look at myself that way. To see if I’ve changed since Garret dumped me, to see if there was a reason for him to listen to his mom. To see if I ever have a chance with anyone else.

  Alex maybe?

  Annie’s hands are on her hips. Her feet spread. She dabs at her eyes so she doesn’t mess up her makeup. She’s snapped her bra and pulled on an Elton John shirt. Now she tugs on her blue jeans, and before they’re fastened she uses a sultry voice. “To a man. Do you think I’m appealing?”

  I see in her eyes she really wants to know.

  My cheeks flush. I think of Garret and then, for some reason, Alex. “A-peeling?” I say, hoping to end this conversation. “That sounds like something you do to fruit. And anyway, you can’t think sexy about a relative, Annie. Ick.”

  My sister is so comfortable with herself. She’s had so many boyfriends. Was so popular. Best friend to so many girls, so many people.

  She laughed about her period, talked openly about staying a virgin, didn’t care what people thought when she wore her crown and strutted to high school in heels.

  Now I squeeze the face towel I’ve dried off with. It took me two weeks to hold Garret’s hand in public. Three weeks before I let him kiss me. You are not the same as your sister, comes into my head. Garret doesn’t care. Alex won’t.

  Annie’s insistent. The sexy voice gone. “Do you think men would find me attractive now?”

  I sling the towel over the side of the tub. “Men? Men shouldn’t be looking at you,” I say. Though I know they do. Did. Do? Is it still do?

  She nods, says, “Yes. Men. My face is almost the same, don’t you think, Sarah?” She’s quiet a second. There’s that hesitation that’s so not Annie. That’s more me. “Or do you agree with Mom?”

  “Like I told you, Annie,” I say, “I think you’re beautiful.”

  “Do you think I might catch something from these other people? The club people?”

  “Mom didn’t say that.” My words are breathy.

  Annie glances at herself. “She meant it.”

  “The club is a good thing.” Annie’s voice, soft like her body, floats around me. “Thanks for caring, Sis.”

  “Always,” I say.

  annie

&nb
sp; When Sarah leaves

  I look at myself.

  No means no.

  Even if, at first, you thought you meant yes.

  Even if, at first, it was your fault.

  Even if, at first, you made yourself available.

  sarah

  I’m thinking about a test in Chemistry when Annie says, “He’s out there again.”

  The morning is clear and dark. No clouds. To the east, a thin line of morning shows, skimming the earth like icing.

  “Who?” Will the car never warm up?

  “Floyd Freeman.”

  I stare out my window. Yup, there he is, shoveling. And his driveway is clear. My stomach does this weird falling thing. “Maybe he’s crazy.”

  “For a while, every time I saw him, I wanted to run,” Annie says. “And Sarah, it’s Mom who’s crazy. All that crap last night.”

  “What do you mean, run?” I asked, but Annie interrupts.

  “She hurt my feelings. Again. Telling me I look bad.”

  “I know.”

  Maybe it’s worse watching what has happened to me all these years happen to Annie now. I’m used to it. I was trained that way. But this is new-ish to her.

  Half a block from school, we pull into the line of cars waiting to turn into the parking lot. The sides of the road are piled with dirty snow. A few trees have limbs snapped by the weather and now hang like broken arms. Mailboxes look like expensive cupcakes with too much whipped cream on top. Annie swears under her breath. I’m not sure if this is because the hill we coast down is dangerously icy or if she’s still mad at Mr. Freeman or if she’s frustrated with high school traffic.

  Annie clutches at the steering wheel and I’m glad, again, I don’t drive.

  “Don’t give her the power,” I say. “You don’t have to wear the black dress. Choose something else.”

  Annie might not hear me because she doesn’t answer.

  When we pull into a spot, people are piling out of their cars. A handful of kids hurry to the seminary building to study religion for an hour. Others run into the main building. Leafless trees clatter bony limbs as the wind blows snow into drifts.