“That’s terrible! I can’t believe this. What kind of curriculum do they have you on? I understand that they’re flexible, but that’s unacceptable.” I pause, not wanting to ask, needing to ask. “Are they…are you doing those weird self-defense things again?”
“Mostly running and strength training. You never know when you’ll need to sprint three miles. Besides, we’re focused more on breaking and entering now.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It really isn’t, is it?”
I stand and walk over to my bed, feel for her. Her head is hanging off the edge, upside down. Her hair has gotten long, longer than it was when I saw her in the vision on the beach. I wonder how else she’s changed.
“You aren’t happy, are you?” I’d been hoping she’d adapt, that whatever weird things were going on with her, whatever strange dynamic she had here would change. I swallow hard. I am a terrible person. I know she’s not happy. She hasn’t been happy in months. Years. But I kept waiting and hoping. Not because I thought she’d change. Because I needed her to be happy so I could keep being happy here.
Fia doesn’t sound upset when she finally speaks. She sounds far away. “I don’t even remember what happy felt like. I think it probably felt like that night I got really drunk with James. Soft and fuzzy, everything spinning and out of focus.”
I pull her up, pull her off the bed and onto my lap. She curls into me like a child, though she’s as tall as I am now, she has to be, all arms and legs. She rests her head against my shoulder, and it’s wet where her eyes are.
“Oh, Fia, Fia. I’m so sorry. I’m going to fix this.” How could I let it get this bad? She’s depressed. Obviously. There has to be something they can put her on, some sort of antidepressant, to make it better until we can figure out how to get her happy again. “I’m going to take care of you.”
“You can’t,” she says, and her voice is hollow. “It’s my job to take care of you.”
I’m taken back to when I was seven and she was five. We were in our second house, the one without any stairs. I was putting together puzzles in the family room, feeling their contours to match the edges. When I finished I needed Fia to come in and tell me what the pictures were. But I was way better at puzzles than her; I always finished them first.
I heard the kitchen door slam. “What were you thinking?” My mother’s voice, high and sharp and sweet, was shrill with panic. “Greg, call the doctor.”
“She’ll be okay.” Dad’s voice was warm. It made me think of blankets straight out of the dryer, sticky with static, thrown around our shoulders. I didn’t remember much of what either of them looked like—just vague ideas of brown hair and long, long legs.
“She could have done permanent damage! Fia, sweetheart, you never stare straight at the sun! You could go blind!”
Fia’s voice came out laced with tears. “I wanted to.”
“You wanted to go blind?”
“So I could be like Annie. I want to be like Annie. You said you were getting her a dog.”
“Oh, sweetheart. We won’t get the dog for a long time. And you don’t want to be blind. If you were blind, too, who would take care of Annie? It’s your job to take care of her. You’re very special. Usually big sisters are in charge of little sisters, but in our family it’s the opposite. Can you do that? Can you take care of her?”
“I can! I will.” Fia’s little voice was solemn with the weight of responsibility.
I picked up my puzzle and pushed it, piece by piece, out the open window. I’d always thought I was there to help Fia. To calm her down when she got too angry, to comfort her when she got too sad, to tell her to shut up when she was being obnoxious.
After that she held my hand more. I let her. But I didn’t look for ways to help her anymore. She was the special one, apparently.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper now, running her hair through my fingers. “I’ve been so selfish. You know you don’t have to take care of me, right? You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not your responsibility. If you want to leave…” I swallow hard. I don’t want to leave. I’ve even been thinking about going to college close by and asking Clarice if I can stay on as a sort of resident adviser, though more than half the girls we started with are gone now. Eden and I both want to stay. Her family is seriously screwed up—she lives at the school all the time, too, even holidays. We’ll go to college together, in the city. Maybe I’ll be a teacher here, after I get my degree. Help girls like Eden and me, help them understand themselves, know they aren’t crazy.
I take a deep breath. “You can. You can leave, if you want to. We’ll find Aunt Ellen. You don’t have to feel bad. You don’t have to stay at the school because of me.” I reach down for her hand.
She rips it away like I’ve burned her, sits up, shoves herself off me. “I don’t have to stay, huh? I don’t have to stay? I’m only here because of you! This is your fault! All of it!”