Echo's Sister

by Paul Mosier

  The Team Echo T-shirts are everywhere, mixed with expensive high-fashion clothing. They’re worn by people we know and people who look familiar, and people who I’m sure I’ve never laid eyes on. Octavius has evidently been conspiring without telling me. But I can live with this kind of conspiring.

  The people we speak with ask where Echo is, and we give them the bad news. Lots of shiny, happy faces turn to disappointment. But the collective spirit remains high.

  Then the music fades, and there’s the sound of a microphone being tapped. A woman’s voice, which seems familiar, fills the gallery.

  “Good evening.”

  On a small stage stands a woman wearing Wayfarer sunglasses, heels, and—Mom’s dress! She certainly has the figure for it, and she looks terrific.

  “There once was a young couple who lived in a cramped and poorly lit space in the Village. The young man was a painter, the young woman a dressmaker. Though they had little money, they created works of art that filled their otherwise bleak existences with meaning.”

  It hits me. The woman wearing Mom’s dress is Miss Numero Uno. But she’s either dyed her hair blue or she’s wearing a wig.

  “As they lived and created, they met others like themselves. People whose sustenance was the art they made.”

  She strikes a dramatic pose, as if she’s reacting to a canvas she’s just painted. Or like she’s standing back and admiring a dress form decked out in a new design. It’s definitely Miss Numero Uno.

  “Whenever there was a fund-raiser, they could be counted on. Donating a painting to help pay for stolen art supplies. Donating a dress to help someone fight eviction from their apartment. They did it often and without hesitation.”

  I look to Dad. I didn’t know this about my parents.

  “Grace makes dresses that are perhaps a bit sunny for my tastes, yet I have surrendered three weeks’ pay to support her daughter. And I look spectacular in it, do I not?”

  The crowd howls and applauds. I hear myself whistle, I see my hands clapping furiously as she spins on the stage, modeling it.

  “Tate still hasn’t learned to draw, but he renders his subjects in a style that takes one’s breath away, does he not?”

  The crowd erupts as she extends an arm to indicate Dad’s painting. Dad laughs and does a little bow.

  “I teach the older daughter, El.” She looks at me directly, curiously. “Or does she teach me? She produces work to be encouraged.”

  The crowd cheers as she points to a painting I hadn’t noticed before. It’s my painting of Echo getting chemo! Or rather the drawing I made, blown up into a huge silkscreen.

  “And behold the work of Echo! She is expression personified.”

  The crowd cheers as Miss Numero Uno points to a large silkscreen reproduction of Echo’s Miss you hair drawing.

  “This girl, and this family, is worth fighting for. Let us help carry their burden!”

  Then she pulls off her blue wig and flings it to the audience. Her head is bare.

  “This family is worth our sacrifice!”

  The crowd goes wild. She steps off the stage like a runway model and heads to the table covered in glasses filled with wine.

  I can’t believe what I’ve just witnessed. I can’t believe any of this.

  Gwen, the gallery owner, takes the stage and leans to the microphone.

  “Now please welcome Echo’s older sister, El.”

  A loud round of applause. What did I do to deserve a round of applause?

  I’m afraid to step up to the mic and earn it. But Dad pats me on the back.

  I adjust the microphone, tilting it down. I’m suddenly aware of my party dress, which feels frivolous, so I try to hide as much of myself as possible behind the podium. But all eyes are directed at me.

  The applause quiets.

  “Hello.”

  My voice sounds strange over the speakers. A few jolly people say hello back.

  “As some of you already know, Echo isn’t able to make it tonight.”

  I give the crowd a second to react. Sympathetic groans and sighs.

  “That completely sucks. So she’s wearing a pink party dress and a cute headband with a bow, but she’s wearing it at the emergency room, because her temperature is 101.6.”

  An arm waves from the back of the crowd. It’s Octavius. I smile a half smile and raise my hand to give him a shy wave.

  “Hi, Octavius. Thanks for bringing the T-shirts.”

  Saying this almost breaks me up. People applaud.

  “So, Echo was excited to see you all and to thank you for everything you’ve done for her and our family, but instead you get to hear Echo’s sister.”

  I look to the sheet in my hand, my prepared speech that’s been held in my clenched fist the whole time we’ve been here. I uncrumple it as best I can and begin reading into the microphone.

  “The day Echo went into the hospital was the first day of school. Before my dad and I went to go visit her at the hospital we had Chinese takeout at home. I wanted to see my fortune cookie because I hoped it would tell me that everything was going to be okay with Echo. But when I opened it up, the little strip of paper was completely blank.”

  I unscrew the cap of the little water bottle I’m holding and take a sip.

  “At the time I felt annoyed, and cheated. So I asked for my dad’s fortune cookie, but his wasn’t a fortune. It was a reminder that the restaurant did catering.”

  A few people laugh.

  “Looking back at it, I think the fortune in my cookie was blank because there’s no way you could fit everything that was about to happen on one tiny slip of paper. Or it was blank because even if it did tell me, there was no way I would believe it, or understand it.”

  I take another sip of water and clear my throat.

  “El!” It’s Maisy, waving as she pushes forward in the crowd, her mother behind her.

  “Hi, Maisy!” I wave back and blow her a kiss. I watch her for a moment, feeling how great it is to have her back in my heart. My eyes return to the page. “I didn’t know how strong Echo is. I didn’t know how funny she is, or how much I love her. Or how much I would ache for her when she was in the hospital. How much she would teach me. She’s taught me so many things. Especially with how she hasn’t let cancer keep her from being a kid. She tries to have fun as much as she can, always.”

  I take another sip of water.

  “I didn’t know how creative my mom is. Or how fierce her love is for Echo and me. And how my dad puts us before everything.”

  My brow furrows to fight back tears.

  “But I was most surprised by all of you. I didn’t know how great humanity could be. Echo has met everything with such bravery, and you told us it was because she had such a strong family supporting her. But we were only as strong as we’ve been because we’ve had all of you carrying us.”

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Your prayers, your vibes, your healing thoughts, your juju, your love. Your fund-raisers. Your gifts. You wouldn’t let us buy our own ice cream.”

  My voice cracks. I wait for my composure to return before speaking again.

  “You cooked us dinners and brought them to our apartment. Including the most amazing daal I’ve ever tasted. I can’t stop thinking about that daal.”

  I crack up a bit. I really can’t stop thinking about the daal.

  “You told us that we were good people and that we were always valued members of the community. You told us it was karma that everything we gave would come back to us. You said such nice things about our family, it made me wonder whether what you said was true.”

  It’s true, comes a small chorus from the crowd. I can’t see the people in front of me, because I can’t look at them.

  “When Echo got her diagnosis, my dad came up with a slogan to remind us to take care of each other. All for one, all four one. I thought it was cheesy and ridiculous at first, but then I began seeing how important it was for all four of us in our family
to eat right, and sleep well, and exercise, and laugh, and pick each other up when one of us was down.”

  I take a sip of water.

  “But none of us had any idea how much of the heavy lifting all of you would do for us. So, thank you. Thank you for loving us. Thank you for lifting our spirits. Thank you for everything.”

  I raise my eyes and make an effort to see the faces through my tears.

  “Right now I feel so lucky to be a member of this species, and this community.” I sweep my arm to indicate the beautiful tear-blurred people before me. “And I’m so incredibly proud to be Echo’s sister.”

  I lift my water bottle high. “To humanity.”

  “To humanity!” the crowd calls back with glasses raised. It’s really something.

  “To Echo!” someone shouts.

  “To Echo!” comes the louder echo. It’s really something else.

  Then, smiling, I lean in to the microphone.

  “It may be twenty years or so away, but I’m sure Echo won’t mind my saying that every last one of you is invited to her wedding.”

  Everyone laughs. Then everyone applauds as I turn from the podium and see my dad, who’s been standing there all along. His face shiny, he grins at me. He steps up to the podium and bends down to the microphone.

  “I echo El’s sentiments.”

  Everyone laughs again, and then Dad points to the woman at the music and gives her a thumbs-up. “Lust for Life” rises on the speakers, and I take Dad’s hand in mine and lead him to the floor, where we dance together just like we will at my wedding, and just like he’ll dance with Echo at hers.

  Late at night I’m in bed staring at the stars on the ceiling above me. From outside the bedroom I hear the door to our apartment open, and Dad quietly greeting Mom and Echo as they return from the emergency room. Standard procedure is to pump her port full of antibiotics and wait for her fever to come down, then send her home at whatever hour.

  I hear the bathroom sink and the electric toothbrush, then the light from the hall spills into the room as Echo enters. She falls into bed with a groan.

  I lean over the edge and look down to her.

  “Good night, Echo.”

  Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t say anything. It’s perfectly okay for her to be too tired and grumpy to say good night back to me.

  I roll back on my bed. It isn’t fair that I’m the one feeling the glow from the love, from the fun of the party. It should be Echo who gets to feel it.

  I glare at the stars on the ceiling and think of how heartless the universe is. It’s filled with loving people, but the universe has no heart and no sense of fairness. I think this until I feel it in my core. Then I sit up and climb down the ladder to the floor. I gaze at Echo’s sleeping form, watching for the rise and fall of her chest by the light of the alarm clock.

  Then I slip out the door.

  First I enter the living room. I open the closet near the front door, and in the dim light see the keyboard standing on its end behind a box of books. I push the books aside, drag the keyboard out, stand it on its unfolded legs in front of a bookcase, and plug it in. I turn the volume dial down, then hit the highest C note—once, then three times in rapid succession. It sounds almost as magical as when I played with A-Train Eddie.

  It’s never going back in the closet.

  I turn the power switch off and walk into the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look at my long dark hair. I run my fingers through it.

  Then I open the drawer.

  I take the scissors, hang my head down over the sink, and gather my hair. I cut as close to my scalp as I can. It’s more difficult than I imagined.

  When I’m done, I raise my head and look in the mirror. My hair is short and messy, uneven, like someone had a sneezing fit while trimming it. I look like my doll did when I was five and cut her hair.

  It’s not what you would call stylish. It’s not even punk rock.

  I walk into the kitchen and get a ziplock freezer bag to put the hair into. Let it become a wig for a kid doing chemo who wants her hair. She can have mine.

  I leave it on the kitchen counter and return to the bathroom, take the hair trimmer from the drawer, and plug it in. I turn it on and begin buzzing what’s left, back and forth, feeling with my free hand. I gather the fallen hair from the sink and throw it into the toilet, then flush it.

  Finally I look in the mirror again.

  I look strange, but maybe I see myself as beautiful, if I can be allowed to think that. I look like a character from some science fiction movie. I also look like Echo.

  It’s like I’m her big sidekick. But I could be worse things than that.

  I stare at myself for a while. Then I turn off the light and climb into bed.

  In the darkness, I smile at how I’ve made the universe a little bit more just, a little more fair. I tilted the scales by the smallest measure.

  The stars painted on my ceiling look down on me admiringly.

  15

  IN SPITE OF how great Friday was—with A-Train Eddie and the gallery fund-raiser—Monday morning, walking the halls at school, I feel even more like a misfit. It’s been an unhappy place for me since the end of day one, but today it feels even more like everyone is looking at me. Or that they’re trying hard not to look at me. They stop talking when I walk by. They either stare at me or they look away when I come into view.

  My newly bald head is beneath a knitted wool cap. I’m not looking forward to the reveal.

  Part of me wishes I hadn’t shaved it. Echo laughed. It’s not like she fell all over herself thanking me. But why would she? It’s like I was punishing myself for not having cancer.

  Just before I get to Mr. D’s classroom, I’ve had enough. A random boy stares at me like I’m some kind of freak-show attraction.

  “What?” I stare him down as I pass. He turns away to his open locker.

  I trudge into Mr. D’s class and fall into my front-row seat. Mr. D smiles at me from where he sits on the edge of his desk, and one corner of my mouth twitches in response.

  It seems strangely quiet as everyone takes their seats. Maybe they’re all nervous about getting their papers back. I can’t even remember what the assignment was.

  When the bell rings, Mr. D drops from the desk to his feet and approaches the front of the class. He stops a couple steps from my desk.

  “Good morning, class.” He’s looking handsome in a navy sweater and khakis. “I hope everyone had a good weekend.”

  He begins pacing back and forth. “The assignment was simple. Write something where the narrative voice, or protagonist, experiences surprise. As a class, you did wonderful work. But one . . .”

  Mr. D turns from the class and quickly fetches some papers from a folder on his desk. He holds the stapled assignment in his outstretched hand. I follow his eyes to Sydney, the girl who sits to my left. She sits slunk down in her chair—the girl who has complained anytime Mr. D liked my work, the girl who saw me getting gelato with Echo and then apparently told the whole school that my sister has cancer, so that instead of being ignored now I am treated like a freak show.

  Sydney.

  I look away from her, back to Mr. D. He still holds the paper in front of himself, his eyebrows slightly raised.

  Just as I notice the sound of the fluorescent lights humming overhead, she sits up in her chair, then stands. Her body language communicates dread as she walks slowly to where Mr. D waits. He hands the paper to her, pats her on the shoulder, and goes to sit in his chair behind his desk.

  I look at her like I’m seeing her for the first time. It’s almost like I could be looking at myself—same uniform skirt and shirt, similar brown hair hanging in her face, obscuring it, which is exactly how I feel.

  Then I remember I don’t have any hair. I reach up and touch my knitted cap.

  “The day I first saw you,” she begins, reading from her paper, “I imagined you were very much like myself.”

  Her hands are trembling, rattli
ng the pages. To my surprise I’m not enjoying her discomfort.

  “Your clothes were just like mine, ha-ha.”

  It’s a joke, but she says it flatly. Some of the kids behind me laugh.

  “But then I realized you wore the uniform better than I did. Much better. And I hated you for it.”

  The class falls silent.

  “I listened to you speak, in response to our teacher, and I thought you sounded very much like me. You said things I wished I had said. Finally I realized you were much smarter than me, and I hated you for it.”

  I hear someone’s shoes squeaking in the hallway outside, running past.

  “I put myself close to you. I hoped that you would notice me and want to be my friend. But you never looked up. You never noticed me or anyone else in class. You seemed to be perfectly independent, above the pettiness of seventh grade. And I hated you for it.”

  If I hadn’t been completely unable to connect with my schoolmates, I might be able to guess who she was talking about.

  “You were prettier than me, and smarter than me, and unlike myself, you didn’t need anyone. I hated you for all of these things.”

  She brushes her hair behind her left ear, so one whole side of her face is now visible. Her cheek is streaked with tears.

  “Then one day I saw you with your sister. She was like a younger version of your perfect self. But she was sick. Very sick.”

  She looks to me over her paper, her eyes filled with pain.

  My jaw drops. She’s talking about me.

  “There, in a gelato shop, with your bald-headed sister, instead of seeing you as a girl who was so perfect she needed nobody and nothing, I saw someone who was vulnerable. And I hated myself for it.”

  Her face is contorted with anguish.

  “I saw that you, the girl I admired and then envied and hated, were troubled beyond anything I’d ever experienced, and I hated myself for it.”

  I’m suddenly very hot, and I pull off the knitted cap. Sydney’s hand goes to her heart.

  “I hated myself for everything I had thought about you. I hated myself for completely misreading you. I hated myself for my insecurity. For my mean-spirited, petty jealousy.”