I'm Not Her

by Janet Gurtler

  “Fine?” My dad hides his face under his hands.

  “I know.” Mom glares at Dad. “We know. We’re not pointing fingers here. We’re all upset.” She wipes a tear from underneath her eye. “I just didn’t think it could be possible…there’s no cancer on my side of the family.”

  Dad looks around like a lab rat trapped in a corner, searching for an escape. “Well, don’t look at me. My dad died from good old-fashioned alcoholism and my mom is physically healthy despite her Alzheimer’s.”

  Kristina jumps up. “It’s not my fault,” she yells, as if she’s been caught cheating on a test or something.

  Mom frowns and pulls on Kristina’s arm so she’s sitting with us at the table again. “It’s no one’s fault. Anyhow, you’re going to be fine. Fine. We’re going to get you through this.” She gets up and walks to the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of lemonade she probably squeezed herself.

  I’m unable to say anything. Dad crumples further down in his chair and drops his head into his hands again. His shoulders shake and he wheezes and gasps, trying to control himself.

  I stare at him. He’s crying. Mom told us he sat through his own father’s funeral without even blinking but now he’s crying. Mom is getting ice from the freezer and filling up glasses. Dad covers his eyes with his big paw-like hands. Mom keeps talking.

  “At least we can afford this,” Mom is saying in her most pragmatic voice. As if we’re discussing signing Kristina up for a spin class. “Thank God for your grandfather’s money,” she says to Kristina.

  My mouth hangs open. She’s talking about money. Now?

  Mom shakes her head. “I can’t even imagine how awful if would be if we didn’t have money.” She picks up a glass of lemonade and plunks it on the table in front of Kristina and then plops another glass in front of Dad. I shake my head frantically back and forth. Lemonade? Seriously?

  “Mom, I don’t want lemonade,” Kristina echoes as her face squishes up in distaste, her eyes water, and her forehead wrinkles.

  Mom takes a glass for herself and sits back at the table and sips it properly.

  Kristina starts to laugh. Dad uncovers his hands. We all stare at her.

  “Maybe we should arrange for a psychologist to help you cope,” Mom says.

  Kristina ignores her and waves her hand at me. “Come on, Tess. Let’s go for a ride in my car.”

  I stare at her, confused. “What?”

  “You can’t go running off.” Mom takes a sip of her drink and runs her hands over the smooth oak tabletop. The custom-made kitchen table she designed. She hates mass-produced furniture. She loves to be unique.

  “Why not? I just want to go for a drive. I’m not dead yet. I’ve made it this far with cancer eating my body; I think I can manage a car ride. It’s not like I’m going to collapse behind the wheel or anything.” Kristina juts out her hip, a stubborn tilt to her head.

  Mom presses her lips tight. “I think you should stay home.”

  “I don’t want to. I want to go for a drive. As you pointed out, we can afford the gas.”

  Mom’s eyes open wider. Kristina doesn’t speak to her that way. I do. But not Kristina.

  Mom makes a face at me, trying to send me a subliminal message of some sort, but I don’t even try to pick up her attempt at mental telepathy. I’m not exactly thrilled about running off with my emotionally distraught sister, but Kristina’s not in the right emotional state to be driving off alone. Even I know that. And taking off with her is better than being stuck in the house with my parents.

  Kristina starts walking toward the door. I shrug and then follow her. I can hear my dad crying quietly behind us. I’d never thought I’d put crying and Dad in the same sentence. My mom’s eyes bore into my back.

  “Look after your sister,” she calls, but I’m not even sure which one of us she’s talking to.

  chapter three

  Kristina rushes down the driveway and is already climbing into her Toyota. She starts the car and waits while I climb in and do up my seat belt. She watches me and laughs. I can’t help but notice it’s still a little hysterical.

  “What are you laughing about?” I ask.

  She nods at the seat belt. “I guess they can’t always protect us, can they?”

  She doesn’t put hers on as she pulls out of the driveway and roars down our street. I don’t mention it even as the car bell rings over and over, reminding her to buckle up.

  “Mom told me not to worry. And I believed her.”

  After a few blocks the warning bell stops. I’m gripping the dashboard because Kristina is driving much faster than normal. I don’t know where she’s taking me, but sense it’s not to McDonald’s for a cheeseburger.

  I’m afraid this trip is not going to turn out well. I feel it in my bones.

  ***

  We don’t speak until Kristina pulls up to a street I’ve never been on before, close to downtown. She parks in front of a big white house. I note the color mainly because of parental brainwashing. Mom hates white houses for reasons I don’t even try to understand. Her voice rings with disgust and the leftovers of her Southern accent become more pronounced, as it does when she’s angry. She came to Great Heights on a scholarship and never went back South. She works hard to cover up her accent, but she’s so morally offended by white paint, her twang is easy to hear. Personally, I’ve got better things to worry about than house color, but I figure Mom’s life is intellectually lacking and shrug it off as one of her Southern quirks.

  I think we’re somewhere close to the frat houses on University Avenue, which runs right through the university campus and all the way downtown, but we drove down a quieter street. The houses are old and the lots are a good size, not as huge as the houses in the south part of town where we live, but big. A cluster of houses in a row look like they’ve been renovated and Kristina’s parked in front of the nicest one. She abruptly shuts off the engine.

  “Uh, what are we doing here?” I ask.

  “Shut up,” she snaps, her giddy mood now gone.

  Anger instantly slithers through my body, pumping in my veins, heating my face, but I stifle it. I want to show support as her only sister. A wave of sadness washes away the resentment and I blink fast, struggling not to cry.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I know I’m being a bitch.”

  I secretly agree but say nothing and listen as she inhales deep and fast. It’s so quiet in the car, I try to think of something to say, something to make her feel better, but I have no idea what that is.

  “If you thought you were going to die…I mean, if there was a good chance that you only had a little while to live, what would you do?” she asks, her voice quiet, serious.

  “You’re not going to die, Kristina.” I wiggle around on my seat, afraid of saying the wrong thing. I know she needs someone to talk to but I don’t know the words to give her.

  She stares at me for a minute, and then shakes her head as if I’m letting her down and picks up her phone. She starts texting a message.

  “Um,” I start to say. “What are you doing?”

  “Talking to someone who isn’t afraid to say what’s on their mind.”

  I clear my throat and try again. “I’d, uh…well, if I was going to die, I mean, I’d…” I try to answer her question but stop, not able to think of what I want to say.

  “Seriously, Tess? You have no idea?” She rolls her eyes at me and then focuses back on the message she’s texting, tapping her fingers on the keyboard like I’m not even there.

  I bite my lip and stare out the window at the white house. There’s a huge front lawn with two stone lion statues at the entrance to a triple-car garage. Mom would hate those statues too. Tacky, she’d say.

  It’s still light outside, but the street lights flicker and turn on. We’re at the point where summer is behind us and fall is coming, but it’s not quite here yet. The leaves on the big trees lining the street are changing from green to burnt orange, giving up, and dropping to the ground.


  Kristina giggles and I look back at her. She’s looking down at the message from whomever she’s been texting. The pain in her eyes doesn’t match the smile on her face.

  “Will you wait here?” she asks and giggles again.

  “What?”

  She smiles, as if I’m precious or slow, and then reaches over and pats my arm. “Just for a little while.” She pulls the keys out of the ignition and hands them to me. “There’s a 7-11 a couple of blocks that way.” She’s talking in a singsong voice that sounds on the verge of hysteria. She points to the right. “You could walk over and get yourself something fattening to eat.” She pulls a five-dollar bill from her pocket and hands it to me.

  I stare at the money in my hand. “What?” I repeat.

  “This is Devon’s house.” She runs her hand through her bangs.

  I look over at the big house. “It’s white.”

  “I’m not Mom, I don’t care,” Kristina snaps and then takes a deep breath and clears her throat. “I’m going to go inside, talk to him for a while.” Her giggle-snort confuses me. “His parents are out, so would you mind, I mean, I’d like it if you’d stay and wait. I won’t be long. I just want to talk to Devon.”

  Like I have a choice. We’re miles from home and even though I’m holding the car keys, I’m not licensed to drive.

  “Why him?” I ask. I wonder why she’s not turning to Gee or one of the other volleyball girls, or if she’s afraid to be less than perfect in front of them. Even now. With something this big.

  “He’s the one I always talk to about things. I mean, I did.” She grabs the rearview mirror, points it to her face, and opens her mouth, checking out her teeth. “It won’t take long. By the time you get back from the 7-11, I should be ready to go.”

  I want to tell her no. I have no desire to hang out and wait while she confides in her old boyfriend instead of me. It deepens my sense of sister fail. And kind of pisses me off.

  “I can talk to you,” I spit out, but I’m clearly out of my element.

  “It’s okay,” she says, and actually pats my hand, like I’m a little kid.

  I nod, because what else can I do? She steps out and closes the door, and I watch her walk up the long walkway, past the lions, to the front. She rings the doorbell and I wait with her, holding my breath until it opens. Devon’s gelled hair is visible from where I sit. He smiles, puts an arm around her, and pulls her inside. She looks small and fragile next to him and then the door closes.

  “Great,” I mutter to myself.

  I don’t move, but it’s so quiet the bark of dogs down the street is my background music. A few minutes pass and then boredom crushes my brain. I think about the 7-11, but surprisingly don’t want to eat anything. Not even with my sister’s five bucks.

  I open the glove box and pull out the iPod she always leaves there, and then get out of the car, clicking the doors locked behind me.

  I shove her ear buds in my ears and turn on music, wrinkling my nose at a blast of a top-forty pop song, and skip by her selection of crappy music until I reach a song by Hedley that I can stomach. I walk for a while, and I’m the only one on the street. No one passes me or is outside looking after their house or anything. It’s almost creepy, and I imagine serial killers or zombies and hurry back to the car, climb inside, lock the doors, and sit with my eyes closed, listening to bad music. Eventually Kristina leaps into the car and my heart skips. I pull the headphones from my ears as she slams the door behind her.

  “Hey,” I say, and sit up straighter. “You okay?”

  She nods and giggles, but her eyes fill with tears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you think is wrong?”

  Then, as if her neck breaks, her head flops down to the steering wheel and she grips the wheel with both hands. Her back starts to shake and her knuckles turn white. She heaves and gulps and tries to control herself. I pat her on the back but she doesn’t respond to me so I take my hand away.

  I look out the window at Devon’s house. Her body shakes harder. I reach out my hand again and touch her hair. Her soft blond hair. Hair I’ve pretended not to envy since I was old enough to recognize how beautiful it was and how different my orangey hair was. I’ve always secretly loved her hair. Even with the new highlights.

  I swallow hard and wonder if she’ll lose her hair to cancer. I don’t want her to. I don’t want her to have cancer.

  “It’s okay,” I say over and over, and I’m the one petting her now, stroking her hair as if she’s my dog or cat. For a moment, she lets me, and it’s yet another sign that our lives have done a one-eighty.

  And then she starts to hiccup and snort and it’s impossible to tell if she’s laughing or crying. Her hand reaches over and grabs mine, and she grips so tightly it hurts, but I don’t say a word or try to pull back. She lifts her head from the steering wheel.

  “Keys,” she says, and holds her palm up in the air.

  I take a second to compose myself as she lets my hand go.

  “Hurry, Tess. We have to leave now,” she squeals, as if she’s being chased by rabid demons. I yank them from my pocket and plop them in her palm.

  She starts to giggle softly again and then, while I stare at her, concerned, she takes a few deep breaths, shoves the keys in the ignition, starts the car, puts it in drive, and peels out without looking back at Devon’s house.

  She speeds down the block and onto a main road.

  “So,” I finally ask, my voice a half-whisper. “What did he say when you told him?”

  “Told him what?” she asks.

  “Um, that you have cancer.”

  She gives me a sideways glance before she focuses back on the road. She’s driving slower and I’ve stopped fearing for my life. But she chuckles again. Soon she’s hiccupping and coughing. I look around the road outside us, glad there’s hardly any traffic, because she snorts and wipes tears with one hand and drives with the other.

  She clears her throat. “I didn’t tell him, Tess,” she says, breathing in and out like she’s doing yoga from the classes she and Mom sometimes go to. “I’m not going to tell him. I don’t want anyone to know. No one.” She pauses, getting her control back. “I mean it.”

  I bite my lip hard and study her profile. “Uh, what did you talk about then?” She was gone for over an hour. Oh my God.

  “We didn’t talk much actually.” She snorts softly as we pull up to a red light, but her laughter doesn’t spiral out of control. “We had sex.” Her voice is emotionless, detached. All traces of laughter are gone and she sticks her chin out. “I didn’t want to die a virgin.”

  But then a sob slips out and her eyes glisten with tears. “I thought it would be nicer,” she says. “But it felt wrong. It wasn’t…what I expected.”

  My heart hurts with wanting her to have the fairy-tale romance.

  “It felt like it was happening to someone else. I mean I didn’t even feel like I was there, you know?”

  But I don’t know. The thought of her so vulnerable with her news and so naked in every way makes me want to throw up. I want to protect her from Devon as if he’s the bad guy. As if he should have done better by her.

  In front of the car, a group of college boys cross the street. They wear university jackets and are whooping, pushing each other around. They spot Kristina and me in the car and start whistling and making rude gestures at us.

  The light changes and Kristina rolls down her window, gives them the finger, and speeds up, almost running into the slowest one, and he jumps on the sidewalk and yells at her.

  I wipe away tears until we reach our house. As she pulls the car to the curb and shuts it off, I sniffle and try to get a hold of myself.

  “You can’t tell a soul,” she tells me before she opens the door to climb out. “Not about me and Devon, and especially not about the cancer.” She glares at me. “Promise?”

  “I won’t say a thing about Devon, but why not the…?” I don’t want to say the word. “That you’r
e sick. Your friends will want to know. They’ll want to help…” My throat tightens and I can no longer talk.

  She shakes her head and her blond hair billows around her face. She’s so pretty, even with runny eyes and a red nose. It strikes me that she doesn’t look different. Not from the sex or the cancer. Not yet.

  She opens the car door and looks at me as she holds the door, ready to climb out. “You promise?”

  I sniffle. I don’t want to agree. But I nod.

  She gazes right into my eyes and it feels like she sees more than I want her to. She gets out of the car. I call her name, wanting to say something more, but she doesn’t hear me, or maybe she chooses not to. She slams her door and my heart breaks a little more.

  When I walk in the house, Kristina is already upstairs. I hear Dad in his office, clanking on his keyboard, pretending he’s not waiting up for us, knowing he won’t come out.

  Mom has left one of her scented candles burning in the kitchen. I blow it out. The smoke swirls up and disappears.

  chapter four

  Our house is party central for the academic university crowd. Mom loves throwing parties. She flings invitations around like confetti at a wedding. I thought Dad would convince her to cancel her planned Sunday brunch for his colleagues under the circumstances. Oldest daughter having cancer and all. But no. Apparently, in their little game of denial, they aren’t planning to tell anyone about Kristina’s cancer. Party on.

  “It’s the best way to handle it,” I hear Mom tell Dad as I pass their bedroom on the way to the bathroom. “We don’t want to change everything and upset Kristina.”

  Yeah, I think, except I guess Mom totally missed the memo that everything has changed. Whether she throws a party or not.

  Dad lets her make these kinds of choices, so he can focus on his work or do eighteen holes uninterrupted. I peek around the corner. Mom has an outfit laid out for him on the bed, one she picked herself from the gigantic walk-in closet. It’s embarrassing the way she treats him like she’s a lovesick 1970s housewife.