The Stars Never Rise

I set my satchel on the end of my bed. “The sooner, the better.”


Melanie opened the cardboard box—her hands still shaking—and read the directions while I changed into the same jeans and long-sleeved tee I’d worn the previous afternoon. “I’m pretty sure you just have to pee on the stick,” I said, when she still seemed confused by the time I was fully dressed.

“I know. But when I do that, we’ll know. For better or worse, we’ll know for sure, and I’ll have to stop pretending everything could still be okay.”

“Everything will be okay, Mel. One way or another. I promise.” She gave me a small, terrified smile. “Now, go pee on the stupid stick.”

I followed her to the bathroom and stood in the doorway while she took the test and then covered the end of the stick with its plastic cap and set it on the bathroom counter. We both stared at the indicator while she flushed the toilet and rinsed her hands.

The directions said we had to wait two minutes before reading the results, but the second line appeared in the result window in less than half that time. Before Mellie could even dry her hands.

Phantom obligation settled onto my shoulders, and I felt my connection to the outside world severed, as surely as I’d felt the snip that severed my genetic line—not physically, but absolutely. There would be no college, no teaching, and no career. For me, there would only ever be New Temperance and whichever factory job would put the most food on the table and diapers in the pantry.

“That’s it, then.” Melanie sank onto the toilet seat, the test stick held between her thumb and forefinger as if it might break. “This is really happening.” Two fresh tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. “I’m actually pregnant.”

“You little bitch!”

Melanie’s gaze snapped up and her eyes went wide. I turned to find our mother standing in her bedroom doorway, one bony, blue-veined hand clutching the doorjamb. Her faded tee hung from her shoulders straight to her bare thighs, too big on her thin frame, and her skin was paler than I remembered. Paler than it had been the day before, somehow. I could see most of her veins through her flesh.

My mom grabbed my arm and hauled me out of the way with more strength than should have been possible from such a frail form and wasted muscles. Her grip bruised. She stepped into the bathroom doorway, her thin feet straddling the threshold, and somehow she seemed to take up more room than she should have.

Melanie tried to back away from her, but she was trapped between the toilet and the tub.

“How far?” My mom’s voice was rough. Scratchy, as if she’d been gargling gravel.

“I don’t…? Wh-what…?” Melanie stuttered, and the pregnancy test fell from her hand to clatter across the floor.

Mom picked it up, and her knees cracked when she moved. I frowned, staring at her ankles. Had the bones always been so prominent? She glanced at the test, then threw it at Melanie.

Mellie flinched. The plastic stick hit the tile beside her right ear and broke into several pieces. I did an automatic inventory of the bathroom, trying to anticipate what would be thrown next and how badly it could hurt my sister if Mom’s aim improved.

Ancient, heavy hair dryer. Empty hand soap bottle. Stick of deodorant.

“How. Far. Along?” our mother demanded carefully, deliberately, and I wasn’t sure whether she was going slowly for her own benefit or for Melanie’s. “How old is the belly rat?” She shot an angry look at my sister’s flat stomach.

“I…I don’t know.” Tears trailed down Melanie’s cheeks, and the rims of her eyes were red. “I’ve only missed one cycle.”

Mom nodded sharply, her thin hair brushing her bony shoulders, and her gaze lost focus. “We’ll fix it. I know someone who can do it safely, but it’s a drive….”

“No…” Melanie slid to the floor with her arms crossed over her abdomen, her knees pulled up to her chest. “No, I won’t. Nina’s going to help me keep it.”

“Nina’s going to…?” My mother turned to me. Her eyes flashed white for a moment, as if they were reflecting more light than was actually available. Like cat eyes in the dark. I took a step back. Something was wrong. More wrong than usual.

“I’ll be almost eighteen when the baby’s born.” I met her angry gaze and held it. “I can work full-time. I can take care of us. All of us.” I hoped that including her under my umbrella of support might help, even though we hadn’t been under hers in nearly two years.

Not that I expected her to last much more than another year. The drugs were killing her—but not fast enough. She’d live past the birth out of spite, just to keep the baby from getting her soul. Because my mother was a selfish bitch.

That was the first of many survival lessons I’d learned.