His house is settled on the corner opposite ours. I see his window from mine, and for a moment it's like I'm in some scene from an old romantic novel where the girl gets the boy.
I wrap my arms around myself. In almost all the books I read, the girl does get the boy. Except that doesn't happen here. It won't.
He has the shades drawn, but I can see movement behind them, and I remember the afternoon (it feels so long ago!) he snuck me into his bedroom when his mother turned her back, and we watched movies on his flat screen.
“Garret. It's awfully quiet up there.” His mom. Her feet on the stairs, coming closer.
Me tiptoeing to the bathroom, stepping into the tub, my heart pounding. Garret opening his door to her saying, “I'm sixteen, Mom. I can watch
Raiders of the Lost Ark
without making any noise.”
Then his door shut. I didn't move. Instead I stayed there, wanting to laugh, excitement coursing through every part of me.
That was my first kiss. Standing in his tub. So weird that I would sneak over to a guy's house and get my first kiss in his bathroom. It was all awkward and his lips were warm and he had to push the shower curtain out of the way and I felt silly and thrilled and not even afraid because this moment was worth it.
Now his light goes out and I jump, then duck. Like he can see me.
Does he even look this way? Does he ever think of me in the tub that day after his mother left, the two of us laughing without sound, staring at each other wide-eyed when he helped me out, holding hands?
I felt sure we'd get caught.
And I didn't care.
Now, I can't quite breathe, remembering.
I touch the glass, feel tears rise again
again
again.
I love him. I still love him.
I
climb back into bed.
Force myself to stop thinking of anything. Of everything.
Nothing outside my home should matter. Not right now.
I think of last night. My mother. My sister. Their fight in the hall with words just above whispers.
Can I see both sides? The question of both, yes.
Like no answers for Annie's weight gain? Sometimes Mom is just dumb. It's kind of funny. Not funny ha-ha, either, that our mother is willing to be blind. All the weird crap, and Mom thinks the idea of a diet will change things.
Annie eats. Simple as that.
I swallow. What more drives my sister?
I asked her why she had stopped exercising, in the beginning when Mom was freaking out over ten pounds, and Annie shrugged. “I'm cool,” she said. Like she could care less. Then she closed her mouth to me.
There are answers for my issues, however. Mom made sure to find those.
When I wouldn't go places unless forced, refused to give talks in class, when I didn't make friends but stayed safe with books. When I threw up from fear, couldn't leave my room, and wouldn't come down for dinner sometimes, Mom took me to the doctor.
He did check my ears. My eyes. Listened to my heart. And listened to Mom.
I couldn't answer his questions. It seemed a hand clasped my throat the whole time we were in the office.
“A case of social anxiety,” Dr. McArthur had said. He looked at me over the top of his glasses. Patted my knee. Smiled a real smile.
“So she needs to do more?” Mom said. “Put herself out there? Work through it? I used to be shy.”
Dr. McArthur rested against a counter that held a jar of extra-long cotton swabs. He kept watching me. All over the walls were
Where the Wild Things Are
pictures. Taken straight from the book and blown up big. If I could have snuck to that place where Max was, I would have.
“I think she'll find more success if she practices deep breathing. Find things to help her relax. What do you say to meditation, Sarah?”
I'd pulled one of my fingernails into the quick and now it bled. I ducked my head.
“It's okay, Sarah. We'll help you,” Dr. McArthur said, and he'd handed Mom pamphlets to look over and gave her a list of other doctors for me to see.
I went to a therapist for a while. Did deep breathing. Got a prescription for Xanax for when things get really bad.
But the truth is that it's still hard. Still. Now.
Every day, I have to make myself do things that other people think are normal. Like going to school. Even years later, after so many doctors. I'm still afraid people are watching me. I'm afraid I'll do something to embarrass myself. I'm scared of being alone â almost as much as I am of being with others.
I don't want to be noticed for anything.
So I stay in my head.
The only time I felt good, happy, and whole was with Garret.
I had every guy I ever wanted
no matter who he was with,
no matter if I knew his girlfriend,
no matter if I really wanted him
or not.
And
I watch my sister
(she seems so little
so not there
too thin)
come down the stairs
in the mornings.
She's been watching him.
I want to tell her not to.
To look away.
Let him go.
But Sarah can't seem to.
D
riving in with me?” Annie asks. She doesn't look up from the over-medium eggs, bacon, and hash browns. With care, she piles a mixed bite on buttered toast and eats like nothing in the world tastes better.
How does she know I'm here without looking? Does she sense me near? Does she feel the air in the room change? Hear my heartbeat?
Doctors say some twins can do that â sense the other. I've even heard of twins who do the same things even if they're in different states, thousands of miles away.
“If you're on time,” I say. I hate to drive. I only do it if I must.
Annie has a habit of being late. This used to be her only flaw â that she was late everywhere. Now, sometimes, she doesn't even show up.
“You're still in jammies.”
“So are you.” Annie chews. Swallows. Winks at me in this over-exaggerated way. Like winking is normal.
I can't help it. I smile. “Where's the Cap'n Crunch?”
Annie turns till she's almost looking at me. “Mom hid it in the lazy Susan. She's watching out for me.”
“Of course.”
A gust of wind hits the house with a slap. And then, like the
wind brought it, Annie says, “Stop torturing yourself, Sarah.” Her voice is raised, like she's trying to talk over the cries of winter.
I step toward my sister. Change my mind, because what would I do if I sat next to her? Instead I grab the cereal box and gather a bowl and milk and a spoon. Take a deep breath, think. Answer her.
Somehow I know what she means, but I pretend I have no idea what Annie's talking about. “What?”
My next breath catches somewhere in my chest.
“It's eating you alive.”
I can't nod. Don't swallow. Refuse to think.
“Let him go. Don't give him that power.”
We stare at each other a good fifteen seconds. The only light in this area is over the bar where Annie sits. I smell the eggs and browned butter and think,
Why does she have to know how I feel? We're twins separated by a thousand miles and she knows how I feel.
“Forget him, Sarah.” She's whispering now.
I'm on autopilot. No longer want to eat. I put everything away. Make myself a glass of milk chocolate Carnation Instant Breakfast.
I can't look at Annie.
How? How can I not think of Garret? How do I forget him?
“I don't want to forget,” I say. The words fall out of my mouth like chips of glass.
“I get it.” She nods. “I do.”
We're quiet again and I change my mind about where to sit. Move to the chair right next to hers.
“I get it.”
There is no way she understands how I feel. I know for a fact. She's had more boyfriends, dates, flings, meaningful library romances than all her girlfriends combined. Resentment wants to put up a wall between us.
“I have something else I need to talk to you about,” she says.
“No more.” I hold up my hand. I should have chosen strawberry. Maybe that wouldn't taste like liquid cardboard.
“Not about you.” Annie licks her fingers. She's a study in eating, the way the light shines on her. “It's been nagging at me.”
I swallow the rest of the drink. Will I throw up? I have to calm myself to keep from gagging, breathe through my nose to stay in control.
“I was awake all night,” Annie says. “Thinking. Worrying about something Mom said.”
“Okay.” My voice is thin. My breath releases.
Annie's hands tremble, “Not now. Later? Maybe at lunch?”
We haven't eaten together at school since sixth grade. This must be something momentous, if Annie is willing to hang out with me at school. Like there's a broken window somewhere in the house, I feel a blast of cold.
“Sure,” I say, and work to steady my heart.
M
y sister knows too much about my feelings. I hate that. But I love it too.
Mom has never once asked me why Garret doesn't visit anymore. She hasn't stopped outside my door at night, given me any looks of concern. Maybe she doesn't know I cried (still cry) because he broke up with me. Does she even know it happened? Does she care?
Sheesh. Saying it makes me sound like an idiot. An idiot girl who loves someone who chose not to love her back.
I hurry upstairs to get dressed.
I thought I would marry him. And yes, I know that no one finds their Prince Charming first thing. We're not supposed to.
But Garret and I talked about it. About marriage.
I thought it would happen after high school. Sometime during college when I went off to major in Deaf Studies and he did law. I thought we would spend the rest of our lives together. Have babies. Lots of babies.
They would have been so pretty.
My sister doesn't know enough.
I'm alone
in
this house,
in my life.
For years I wanted
to share the spotlight.
Not be the only star
of the family.
To shine the attention
at my sister,
who has been lost from sight
all this time.
Getting what you wish for
hope for
want
always comes with a price, doesn't it?
A
s I go through my closet looking for something to wear (something easy, something like my mood) I think how I used to be angry with Annie. Sometimes I'm still bothered that she has all the attention. Negative or positive, attention is attention.
I pause, struck with an odd memory.
Once, we went shopping. Me and Annie and Mom and Dad. All of us. Not just your casual let's-run-to-the-mall thing. Annie needed a gown, and that meant some upscale shops in Riverwoods downtown.
Annie ended up trying on half the dresses in one store while I was left to read in a chair in the dressing room, and somehow â somehow â they forgot me.
Forgot to take me home.
Two kids, and Mom and Dad left me tucked between billows of color reading
The Window
.
I stood in front of that shop for thirty minutes, alone, waiting. Then Dad came screeching around the corner, driving the Escalade up on the sidewalk, and Mom scooped me up in her arms. I felt her breath on my face. Her tears on my cheeks. Heard her mumbled words of sorry.
Annie grinned in my face and said, “I told them to go back for you.”
Such an odd feeling that day. Worried they might not find me. Worried they would.
I could have walked home, if I'd wanted.
But for a few minutes I hadn't felt the pressure of dress shopping. Or looking at this style and that one.
Sure, Mom and Dad forgot me. But I hadn't minded that much.
Now I wade through clothes, my hands running over silk sweaters and a cashmere jacket. Annie's closet, on the other hand, is jammed, though she wears only the outfits she recently purchased from a thrift shop. (She still has all her dresses from pageanting. Boxes piled at the top of her closet, gowns the colors of the rainbow inside them.)
Smiling a little at the memory, I push through my clothing. How sick am I if my family bothers me that much and I don't mind being left behind?
What to wear? What to wear?
I can't decide.
What outfit would Mom suggest for me?
I pause. Annie's so much like our mom â even now. Beautiful. Smart. The two love the same movies. Both were cheerleaders. Both did the pageant thing. Both were popular.
Digging through the back of my closet, I find a shirt of Dad's. I haven't seen it in forever. It's another Before memory, from when the family felt more comfortable. I pull the old flannel out and press it to my face. Tears sting my eyes.
“You'll be okay, Sarah,” I whisper to myself. Whisper into the shirt. “Get dressed.”
I glance into the mirror. It's silly. Me in my underwear holding Dad's clothing. But I love how this shirt is too big for me. How
soft it feels. How the greens and blues look against my skin. How it absorbs tears.
I put the shirt on, then my jeans. Pull on socks. Boots.
Down the hall, Annie's getting ready. I hear her humming inside our shared bathroom.
I sit on the edge of my bed. Dab at my eyes. I'm tired from thinking. Without looking in the mirror, I fix my hair. It's crazy curly and I don't even try to comb through it, instead just pull the whole mess up into a ponytail.
Should I take the time to put on makeup?
I glance at myself side-eyed. “I want Mom and Dad to like me,” I say to the reflection. As much as they love my vibrant sister. The spoken thought makes my throat tighten. Tears again spring to my eyes. I sigh. Better take meds to school with me.
“They love you,” I say, getting a pill from the bottle and popping it without water. And they do. I know that.