Sister Pact

by Stacie Ramey

  “I’m not sure…” Dr. Ziggler tries.

  “We’ll follow through on all your recommendations. She wasn’t taking her meds. We’ll make sure she does now.” Dad shoots Mom a look.

  “We thought she was doing okay,” Mom says.

  “She has to stay in the hospital for two more days. That’s the law. After that, the choice is yours. My recommendations will be on file in case you change your mind.”

  Dr. Ziggler moves to the bed and shakes my hand. “Pleasure meeting you, Allie. Please stay well.” His crystal-blue eyes are so clear, I want to jump into them. I want him to take me with him. Away from Mom and Dad. But he’s not my father. I wasn’t that lucky.

  I watch him leave the room, my hopes sinking with every squeak of his sneakers. I’m going home. With them. Back to whatever they’ve done to sanitize my house. I try not to cry.

  “Allie, you okay with this? You want to come home, right?” Mom asks.

  “Sure,” I lie, and I’m surprised at how little effort that takes.

  I’ve been telling lies for so long now, I’m not sure I know the truth. Each lie I tell connects to the previous one. These are Jenga lies. I’m not sure which one will send the whole tower tumbling. So I protect all of them—until I can think straight enough to keep the tower standing.

  “You’re going to be fine, Allie,” Mom says, slipping me a new cell she must have gotten while I was sleeping. Mom’s always prepared. Always has her bribes ready. As if she knew Dad would win and she’d have to make it up to me somehow. May as well benefit. Leah’s words come back to me from when we got the phones.

  “We’re going to take care of you,” Dad says. Lie. “I love you, Allie.” Big fat lie.

  I’m surrounded by lies. I’m swimming in them. And with no backup—no pills, no Leah, no Nick. No Max or Emery. Something Dr. Ziggler said made me think. Maybe they are what’s making me sick. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s them. I’m so consumed with that thought, I don’t hear the nurse come in.

  “Open up, Allie. Time for your meds,” she says.

  Mom and Dad watch me. I obey and accept the pill, like taking communion. Only something about taking the medicine feels wrong. So I push it to the back of my mouth and trap it against my teeth. What makes these pills different than the ones that landed me here? One pill made me see Leah. A different pill will take her away. I feel like I’m in Alice in Wonderland again. The wrong Alice, definitely.

  “Why don’t you try to rest,” the nurse suggests as she writes in my chart. “Best thing for you really.”

  I wonder how much she thinks she knows about me. I think of all the reasons I took those pills, all the things I told myself. I had to save my art. I had to save my sister. But those were lies. I was the one who wanted the pills. Me. Not Leah. Because she was never really there. Except in my mind.

  “Visiting hours are over,” the nurse says, her tone short. She adjusts my IV line and checks the numbers on the machine hooked up to me.

  “Good night, Allie.” Mom brushes my cheek with a quick kiss.

  “See you tomorrow,” Dad says from across the room. He opens the door and backs out.

  As soon as they all leave, I cough the pill into my hand. I go to the bathroom, wrap it in toilet paper a few times, and flush. I know I should trust Dr. Ziggler. But I don’t want to be numb anymore. Any kind of numb.

  I turn off the light and go back to bed. The dark room makes me feel completely alone. I do the math. No more Emery. No more Max. No more Nick. No more Leah. Who else is left? No one. Just me.

  I play with my new cell. It’s just like my old one, but it has an orange plastic cover. Max’s color. Figures. When it powers on, there’s no picture of Em and me, just the general, factory-issue wallpaper. Maybe that’s better. My contacts are loaded. I scroll through and block Max and Emery. That done, I think about Leah again. There’s no trace of her on this phone. Are there traces of her in my mind? I heard her. I saw her. I felt her. She was so real to me. Only she wasn’t.

  I want Leah. Even if she’s not real.

  Before, the pills and the headaches were catalysts. Now I’ve got nothing but the pain. And it’s not enough. I close my eyes and let myself fall asleep.

  I dream about Leah. She’s underwater and I can’t get to her. I see her face, bloated and pale. Someone is pouring milk through a funnel into her ear. I hear people talking about her. About how they’re going to miss her. She opens her eyes underwater and reaches out for me. Her hand grabs mine, and she pulls me under. I gasp awake.

  I crawl out of bed and walk to the window. It’s the middle of the night. But in the lamplight, I can still see trees, the parking lot, the glint of metal from the cars. It must have rained because the ground is wet. I don’t remember hearing the rain. I missed it, like all the things Leah is missing now. I don’t want to miss any of it. The parties, the pep rallies, laughing with friends. I’ve always been tethered to this world while Leah was the one who was floating—like if she couldn’t live the way she wanted to, she’d rather die. That thought settles inside me. I know it’s the truth.

  I press my forehead against the window so I can feel the cold and the condensation. I would miss this too if I’d done it—the way the window feels after it’s rained.

  I crawl back to my bed and close my eyes.

  My cell rings, an unknown number. I answer it before thinking.

  “Hello?”

  “Allie?” John Strickland’s voice.

  I’m so surprised, I almost drop the phone.

  “Allie, you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I just heard. You okay?” His voice is soft.

  “Yeah.”

  “I just… I need to know… Were they mine?”

  I’m startled by his question. I feel all hollowed out and exposed. Dr. Ziggler said the road to recovery starts with coming clean, but it doesn’t seem right to hurt him.

  “No,” I say. “They weren’t.”

  “I always wondered about Leah, if she took mine, if that’s how she did it.”

  “No. Mom’s.”

  I hear him breathe out heavy. “Thanks. I mean, it doesn’t change anything, but I always worried about that. Are you really okay?”

  “Mostly. I didn’t actually mean to.”

  He laughs a small, soft one. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay. You have to remember that Leah wants you to be happy. She loved you very much.”

  “You too.”

  He laughs. “Yeah. Me too.”

  He hangs up, and I think about John Strickland’s dangerous eyes. His pirate heart. I let his concern wrap around me, and it feels good, even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s borrowed from Leah, it still feels good.

  I stash my phone under my pillow. My eyes feel heavy, and I let them close. I relax and start to drift, but just before I fall asleep, a hand brushes my cheek. The touch is light and leaves the tiniest scent for my beaten-down psyche to decipher: mango. My eyes won’t open, so I must be dreaming. I guess dreaming’s okay. Dreaming doesn’t get you in trouble. Dreaming doesn’t land you in the hospital with nurses and doctors writing notes in your chart that aren’t true. Dreaming is a free pass. Better than a random pill.

  Then I hear her. “Allie,” she whispers, “I miss you.”

  This time I know she’s not really here, but I don’t care. Because accepting Leah as ghost or illusion feels like a gift, even if it’s a lie.

  Chapter 22

  The ride home from the hospital is uncomfortably quiet. Dad tries to fill the empty space. He thumps the steering wheel, turns on the radio, and hums along. It’s all I can do to not shriek at him. I watch the geography flash by—highway, then exit, then trees and medians. Then neighborhood, then driveway. My stomach feels as if I’ve swallowed a giant rock. I don’t want to be
here.

  “Here we are,” Dad says. “Why don’t you take her in, and I’ll bring her stuff?”

  We walk in the house. Mom flips on the lights. Sophie runs to me. I pick her up.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I whisper into her furry face. “I missed you.”

  Mom starts sniffling. I feel bad. “You hungry?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “You’ve got to eat,” Dad says, setting down the small suitcase they packed with my things. He talked about cleaning things up for me. What did he mean? My flesh crawls. With Dad it could be anything. None of it good.

  I turn from him and walk up the stairs.

  “Leave her,” Mom says.

  My feet slow as I approach Leah’s bedroom. Did Dad do anything to her room? I turn the knob, holding my breath and hoping he left things as they were.

  The first thing I notice is that her bed is made. I walk to it and pull the covers back. I sit on it. The space in her closet where her tall black boots should be waits expectantly, making me feel guilty for wearing them and messing up her things.

  “Allie,” Dad calls as he climbs the stairs. His footsteps are deliberate and strong, like always. Dad is dependable that way. His movements don’t change, no matter what the circumstance. “You okay?”

  I don’t answer. I climb under the covers. I hear him open my door. He didn’t even knock. Just walked in. God, I hate him.

  “Allie?” he calls, now sounding frantic. And that makes me glad.

  “Allie?” Mom’s steps are worried like her voice. I feel bad—but not bad enough to answer.

  Leah’s door bursts open. “Allie, for God’s sake. Didn’t you hear us calling you?” Dad yells.

  “Leave her alone,” Mom says. “She’s just gotten home.”

  “Yes, just gotten home and look where we’ve found her!” He points to me in my perch under Leah’s covers.

  Sophie runs in the room and starts barking, which snaps me out of it. I crawl out of Leah’s bed and sit on the floor. Sophie gets in my lap and puts her paws on my shoulder. She kisses my face.

  “I told you we should have—” Dad’s go-to emotion: anger.

  “That’s enough. Let’s leave her alone for a little.”

  “Allie,” Dad ignores Mom. “I don’t want you hanging around in here.”

  I look up from Sophie’s face to stare daggers at him.

  “I know you think I’m being mean, but it’s for your own good.”

  I wonder what else he’s done for my own good. I stay silent. It’s my best play.

  Thankfully, he leaves.

  “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” Mom retreats too.

  I’m frozen. I can’t breathe. It’s too hard. The front door opens and closes. Something about Dad leaving makes me feel like I can move. Mom’s steps hit the ground floor. I stand.

  I get up and rifle through Leah’s desk drawer. Her last tube of Chap rattles around, and without thinking, I shove it in my pocket.

  I almost don’t want to walk in my room. It has its own horrible memories waiting for me. The last time Max climbed in my window. Leah. The pills. Going to my studio and facing the paintings. I open the door and slip in, trying not to disturb the air around me. It’s like I can hear Leah’s ghost calling to me. I trace the lines of the flower I painted on the wall and window. The one she called graffiti.

  From my window I can see my studio. Something tells me I should go there and look. The thought comes like Leah used to, like a little voice advising me. And the little voice is right. I need to see where my breakdown happened. I need to be where I meant to finish this.

  My steps are stealthy as I make my way to the kitchen, where the key hangs on the hook. It’s back in its place on the pink Converse key chain, hanging next to a random key that’s been there forever, its ancestry stamped with Dad’s old bank logo on it. I do the math. After they called the ambulance, after they cleaned up, someone actually put the key back. I get chills. Dad’s work, definitely. He’s all about order. Then I realize, when he was talking about cleaning up the house, he must have meant my studio. My paintings.

  I slip out the back door, Sophie following. In the studio, my breath catches. It’s worse than I thought. My paintings are gone. All of them. I bend over and clutch my stomach. My breath is gone.

  I hear Mom approach, small steps that remind me how weak she is. She’s stupid to come out here now. She should know better. This is not a good time to go on the offensive with me. All the emotions I’ve bottled up are now coursing through my veins, making me ready to explode. She should run for cover. But she’s never been good at war games. Always playing the corpse. Except when Leah was. Or I am.

  “How could you?” I fire.

  She looks around the room. Her face is greenish gray. She knows it was wrong. Her silence makes it worse somehow. She could have stopped him. Did she even try? Or did she stay silent and stupid, like she is right now.

  “Say something!” I scream.

  “Allie…” Her voice is calm and quiet, making me shake even more.

  “They were mine!”

  “Don’t get upset… Your father…”

  “Don’t. Don’t bring him into this.” I start pacing, then turn to face her.

  She looks at her hands. She knows. But her refusal to speak is so controlling, like Dad in the hospital with the doctor. Like Leah when I pissed her off. I’m over all the controlling people in my life. I’m not doing it anymore.

  I throw an easel over. Crash. “You had no right.” I pick up a chair and launch it across the room. Bang.

  She comes toward me, her arms outstretched. “He was scared, Allie. It’s what he does when he gets scared.”

  Tears pour down my face. My throat feels like it’s closing. This would be easier with a few pills. A bottle of something. I push my nails into my palms and sit, my back pushed against the wall, using it as support.

  “I did those before…” It’s no use explaining.

  “I know.”

  “I miss her, Mom. I miss Leah. Every day.”

  “Of course you do.” She comes closer. Does she think I want her near me? After what she did? After what they did? “Your father was worried about you.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t let him take my paintings. Don’t you remember? You promised.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know what?”

  “I didn’t know he took them.” She looks around the graveyard Dad left behind. “Must have been when I was getting your phone. I didn’t know.” I look at Mom. She looks completely defeated.

  “How come he still has a key to our house? If he left us, how come you still let him come and go like he has a right?”

  “I didn’t think… I wanted…”

  “You never think with Dad. You let him run all over you. And us. I’m done with it. It’s not right.”

  “I’ll get your paintings back, I swear.”

  “Bottom line, Mom. I am not like you. I am not like Leah either. Because I’m not giving up on my life. Like you did. I’m not giving up on myself like she did.”

  “You were always stronger than she was. Always.”

  And just like that, her words take the wind out of my argument. It shouldn’t matter what Mom thinks of me after all this. But it does.

  “Your father and I knew that. We worried about her all the time.”

  “You worried about Leah?”

  “Yes. Because she wasn’t solid like you.”

  I slide to the floor and put my head on my knees. Mom tries to close the distance.

  “How do you know he didn’t throw them out? How do you know he didn’t destroy them?”

  She sits next to me. “I just do. I know where they are. I’ll bring them back. Give me a few days. A week, tops.”

  “Let�
�s get them now then!”

  “I can’t.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I’ll bring them back. I promise.”

  I put my head back down. I have nothing more to say to her. My voice has been stolen. Lost. Like my paintings. I wish I could believe her. But she’s not strong like Dad. It’s like playing the house. He’ll win. He always does.

  “I’m going to make the arrangements,” she says as she gets up to go.

  When I’m sure she’s really gone, I pull it out of my pocket, Leah’s cherry ChapStick. I bring it to my nose and call to my sister. Can I make her come to me? I close my eyes and smell the cherry, then coconut, then mango. The scents fill my head. I cover my nose so I can trap them there. So she can’t escape.

  I push my hands against my eyelids and will her image to appear. A starburst of white erupts inside my mind’s eye. Miraculously, Leah steps out of it, all outline and movement. But just inside my mind this time. I know if I open my eyes, she’ll be gone.

  When I look toward the door, I see a silhouette. At first I think it might be Leah. But as she steps forward, I see who it is: Emery. Her olive skin is sallow looking. Her curls are a mess around her head. “Thought you might be here.” Actress tears run down her face, perfect trails of pretend pain. She walks halfway across the room and stops. “I know you don’t want to see me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” I don’t try to get up because my legs are too shaky to hold me.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay, Allie. You have no idea.”

  I look down.

  “I know you’re probably never going to forgive me. I don’t blame you.” She starts to cry harder now and messier.

  I shouldn’t let her get to me, but she does. The pain leaks out of my heart and onto my face. Emery. Why do I have to lose everyone? First Leah, then Max, then her.

  “I’m so sorry, Allie. I’d do anything to take it back.”

  “You can’t.”

  She sits on the ground. Her shoulders shake with her crying. She wipes her eyes with her hands, then wipes her hands on her jeans. She’s left black smears on her favorite jeans.