“What kind of school are you running here?” demanded one of the dads. He was the CEO of some company or another and spoke as if life were a contentious board meeting with dissenting stockholders everywhere.
Mr. Jordan had been Callie’s favorite teacher when she was in kindergarten. He was everyone’s favorite teacher. And now he was gone.
Sera had been in his class for only two months.
SERA, AT FOUR YEARS, EIGHT MONTHS
The parents were shocked anew. Another beloved teacher—another teacher of Sera’s—fired. CEO Dad pulled his son from school.
SERA, AT FIVE YEARS, TWO MONTHS
Patrick had his first affair when Sera was one year and nine months. It ended when she was two and seven months. Another one began at three years, four months and ended just two months later. This third one, though—begun at three years, nine months—seemed like something real.
When did things first start going so wrong between them? Kareena wonders. Was it the exact moment that Sera was born? They’d had a fight a few hours after her birth, right there in the hospital room. She couldn’t remember what it was about.
There was a time when Kareena bragged about her and Patrick’s relationship to anyone who’d listen. “We never argue,” she’d say. “We’re best friends. We communicate. We love each other, but we also like each other.” Other couples were jealous of their relationship. She could see it in their eyes, and it made her feel satisfied and a little superior.
Now she understood a little of what those lesser couples must’ve felt. She’d like to meet the old Kareena and the old Patrick again. She’d tell them to be gentle with each other even when they were sleep-deprived. She’d tell them to be careful with their words. Some things once heard can’t be unheard.
She’d tell them not to have a second child, not under any circumstances.
SERA, AT SIX YEARS, THREE MONTHS
Kareena didn’t love Sera as she should. Not as much as she loved Callie. She tried to, but she didn’t.
And Sera knew it.
SERA, AT SEVEN YEARS, ONE MONTH
Patrick remarried. Since the day he walked out on Kareena, he hadn’t seen either of his daughters. He thought it for the best. He couldn’t explain it, but thinking of them, thinking of Sera, made him angry.
SERA, AT SEVEN YEARS, TEN MONTHS
Sera said, “The light makes people angry.”
Kareena closed the door in her face.
SERA, AT NINE YEARS, THREE MONTHS
Having a second child had been Kareena’s idea. She’d always pictured herself as a mother of two children—sisters. They would play princess dress-up and go away to summer camp and share secrets and have crushes on the same boy and cry together and be the maids of honor at each other’s weddings and love each other, love each other, love each other.
But Patrick thought one was enough.
“We’re so happy now,” he said. Callie was one and a half at the time and they’d finally hit their stride as parents. But Kareena could not help what she was, what she wanted.
“Callie needs a playmate, a sister,” she said to Patrick.
“I don’t want her all alone when we die,” she said, upping the stakes.
Eventually, Patrick relented.
For a long time, Kareena hoped the sisters would grow close. But they didn’t. Callie wilted in Sera’s presence. She made other girlfriends. She had playdates and sleepovers and dance parties and treated them like they were her sisters. Kareena didn’t blame her.
SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS
She made three friends at school—the first she’d ever had. Sure, they were the girls no one else wanted as friends, but it was something. Kareena was grateful. Maybe Sera would finally become normal.
SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, NINE MONTHS
Sera was sick, and no one seemed to know how to fix her.
SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS
Kareena watches Callie’s body burn. She screams and she screams.
III.
PRESENT DAY
A life is a series of past moments, all of them leading you to the present one. The moment doesn’t have to be an event. It can be a sudden insight that changes how you see yourself in the world. These moments serve to clarify you, to sharpen who you really are for yourself and for others. Here are mine:
I am born. I try to cry but find I can’t.
I do not look at all like the rest of my family. My mother doesn’t like this.
A white light lives under my skin. I ask my mother if she has it, too. She doesn’t answer.
My mother does not love me. But she wants to.
I want to be more like Callie. I want to make strangers glad. I want them to ask me: What’s your name, pretty girl? How old are you? Oh my gosh, where did you get those cute shoes? But they don’t ask me questions. Instead, they say: You’re so quiet. They say: Smile. Be more like your older sister. The more perceptive ones say: You like to watch the boys fight.
I make the bad man kill himself. My mother is afraid of me.
I want to be normal. I am the only one with the white light. It leaks out of me, and bad things happen.
It’s my fault Mr. Jordan slaps Sammie so hard that he gets all red and swollen. I make people angry. And afraid. I don’t know how to stop.
It’s my fault Mr. Kelly screams so loud and so long on the playground. His heart is crowded with anger and fear. I did that, too. I don’t know how to stop.
My father loves someone more than he loves my mother. My mother loves Callie more than she loves anyone.
My father leaves us and does not come back.
I dye my hair brown. I wear brown contacts. My mother still does not love me. She cannot.
I deny what I am. For a while, I am successful.
I am sick all spring. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong, but I do. I finally learned how to keep the light under my skin.
I hold the light in. I make a friend. My hair thins, falls like straw around my feet.
I hold the light in. I make another friend. My lips crack to blue.
I hold the light in. I’m too sick to attend school. My skin bleeds color.
Callie gets strong as I get weak. Still, I hold the light in. It burns me from the inside. All spring they—Callie and our mother—wait for me to die.
The light won’t let me die. I burn. I burn. I burn.
Callie comes back from camp. It’s the first summer she’s ever been away from home. Away from me. She comes into my room and she looks better than I’ve ever seen her, beautiful.
Our mother says, “The doctors haven’t been able to fix her.”
Callie says, “Maybe it’s better this way.”
Our mother nods.
Callie comes close to my bedside. Ordinarily, she would never come this close, but I am helpless now with the light trapped under my skin. She says, “I was happy this summer without you.” She says it sharp and fierce, like a stabbing.