Blackness causes her to stumble, hitting her head. Feeling wetness on her face, she touches her forehead. Even in the night, she can see the blood marking her hands. She hits the light switch, then she turns on the water, washing it off. Taking a hand towel, she wipes her temple, removing any residual proof of her wound. After, she throws the towel in the sink, watching with detached fascination as the blood seeps from it and swirls around the drain until disappearing from view. Once the water runs clear, she splashes some on her face, until she can recognize the face in the mirror.
I let go of Papa’s hand, a shiver running up my spine. Wrapping my arms around me, I ward off a chill. I have lost my footing. Thoughts of Eric, Papa, Gia—ghosts of the still-living—circle. Feeling my grip on sanity start to slip, my body begins to shiver.
“Hey,” Sonya says gently, her hand slowly covering my own. “You’re OK.” Cradling my hands in hers, she pulls me close with her other arm. And then, for the first time in our lives, we reverse our roles. Now she is the one holding me tightly, our clasped hands still between us, a bridge vulnerable to collapse. “Trisha, you’re going to be fine.”
Sonya is the sister I have loved because I had to. She arrived after me and followed me around like a puppy dog. Looked up to me, no matter what I did. All the childish cruelty that only children can create never swayed her reverence. She was in awe, and in her eyes, I could do no wrong. How many times, I wonder, did I take advantage of that? I’ve lost count of the times I accepted her worship as my right. Now, I realize that, for all the times I convinced myself she was fortunate to have me in her life, maybe I too was lucky.
“You don’t know that,” I whisper, sure she is wrong. I lay my head on her shoulder, the little strength I have acquired over the years seeping out of me. My father, my pillar, lay dying, but the one holding me up is the little girl I believed had never learned to stand.
“Yes, I do,” she says, insistence lacing every word. “Because you’re the strongest person I know.”
“You’re wrong,” I tell her, wanting to pull off her rose-colored glasses. They no longer provide me with the reflection I have become used to seeing. Of someone perfect. “See me. See me.” My tears soak her shoulder. “I have nothing left.”
“You have you.” Her words allow no room for argument. “You are the girl who kept us playing, no matter how bad it got. You are the woman who became the glue for a family torn apart.” She pulls inches away from me, holding my gaze. Her eyes are wet with tears. “You are the sister who made me believe it was worth living, no matter how many times I wanted to die.”
Letting go of her hand, I slip mine around her waist, more grateful than words can convey. We both stand there, holding one another, two pieces of a puzzle that has never been put together. But for the first time I see what I never had before; my little sister has a well of strength. With it she offers me a light to escape the nightmare I cannot seem to wake from.
SONYA
I change into running clothes and slip my earphones into my ears. It’s past six in the evening. After my conversation with Trisha, I need to escape, to get as far away as possible. Since I can’t run away like I used to, I have found this is the best alternative.
Throwing my things into a locker, I stretch before making my way through the halls of the hospital toward the exit. Once outside, I breathe in the fresh air. Choosing a path around the hospital and toward the familiar Stanford campus, I start off slow to let my muscles warm up. The sun is starting to set, taking with it the warm blanket that had settled over the region.