The Words We Keep

I find my sister’s hand beneath the waves.

“I’m scared.” My voice is small, carried away by the water—and so am I.

The ocean tugs me farther. We’re too far.

But Alice reaches out to me.

“Take my hand,” she says. “We’re on an adventure.”

And because I’m six and she’s my much wiser and braver eight-year-old sister, I believe her. I let her convince me we’re deep-sea explorers, returning from an expedition. I let her lead me, even though salt water fills my mouth, my ears, my everything.

We fight against the waves, hand in hand.

And then I’m on the sand. Dad’s swearing. He’s pounding on my back. He’s yelling my name so loudly, it hurts my head.

Lily. Lily. Lily.

I’m choking, spitting out the ocean.

Dad falls to his knees, and he’s hugging us, so tight I almost pop, and we’re huddled on the beach, and he’s crying, and I think they’re happy tears, but it’s hard to tell.

“It’s okay, Dad,” I say, my voice stronger on land. “We were on an adventure! We were so brave!”

This only makes him cry harder, and Alice is crying, too, which makes no sense because she’s the bravest one of all.

—

Ten years later, I’m by the shore again. Alone this time.

No deep-sea expedition. No adventure.

Just the crash of the waves and a stopwatch and the thud-thud-thud of my feet on the pavement. A text from Alice lights up my phone: Lily. Where are you?

I don’t answer. I’m in the zone, pushing a little faster.

A little farther.

A little better.

Until my muscles are spent, and I turn toward home.

I find her on the bathroom floor. She reaches out to me, razor loosely in hand, words repeating on her lips:

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I stand, frozen, paralyzed by the sight of blood draining from her wrist, pooling on the tile.

Help me, she says.

In slow motion, I wipe her with a towel. Try to stop the blood. Find the source. But my shaking hands make it worse. Bright red on my skin. Smeared on the floor.

Help me.

But I don’t know how. I barely know her, this lesser version of my brave big sister.

“Dad!” My voice echoes in the room, shrill and panicked and unfamiliar.

He finds us there, her head in my lap, her blood on my hands, waiting for someone who can fix this.

Dad scoops her up. Carries her, legs limp, blood dripping like a fairy-tale crumb trail down the stairs. He puts her in the car. Drives her away.

I clean my sister’s blood off the tile. Off the carpet. Off me.

In the sink, the red spirals away, but not the echo of her whispered help me. It fills my head, and I want to drown it out with screams. But I can’t. I need to be strong. For Alice. For Dad.

So because I can do nothing else, I make her bed

over

and over

and over.

Sixteen times.

Until it’s perfect.

And when the sheets are straight, corners military tight and pillows fluffed, I rip it apart.

Just so I can put it back together.