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!”
I frown, hurt. “I didn’t make you come!”
“It’s your fault I’m all you have! You let Mom and Dad die! You saw what was going to happen. You SAW it. And you didn’t stop it! If you hadn’t let them die, we’d never be here in the first place! Everything would be okay! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
Fia, who said she never blamed me, who promised me, promised me, had blamed me this whole time.
“Get out of my room,” I say.
“Make me.”
“GET OUT OF MY ROOM! GET OUT OF MY LIFE!”
The slamming door is my only response.
Later that night I can’t sleep. I feel too guilty. I shouldn’t have said those things to her. I’m the big sister. And she’s hurting, has been for a long time. I need to help her. I need to be the calm one, the one who can be in control, see this for what it is.
She needs help.
I pad down the hall. I don’t know if the lights are still on or not, but I know the way to Clarice’s office by heart. She works late a lot; maybe she’ll still be there. It feels right to be doing something.
Voices are coming from her office. The door must be open. I walk closer, then stop. At least I know she’s awake. I’ll wait in the hall until she’s done.
I’m about to sit when I hear Fia’s name.
“Surely there has to be a better way to control her.” Ms. Robertson’s voice.
“Eden says she’s getting worse. The guilt is fading and being replaced by anger and something Eden calls a swirling mess of empty despair. That girl has a thing or two to learn about precise definitions.” I don’t know whose voice that is; it sounds vaguely familiar, but I’m sure I’ve never had instruction from her. Almost all my classes are with Clarice, one-on-one.
“It’s an unusual case.” Clarice. So Clarice knows Fia’s struggling, too, and she’s already working with the rest of the faculty to help. I smile. “The other girls worth keeping are easy enough. By the time they put it all together, they’re in so deep and enjoy the perks so much they don’t realize it wasn’t their own idea. Like Eden. Broken homes are wonderful, aren’t they?” A smattering of laughter. I don’t like the feeling of this conversation.
Clarice’s voice is closer to the door. I shrink back against the wall, praying that the hall lights are off. I don’t hear them. There’s no hum. But I don’t usually try to listen to the lights. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they can see me right now. Maybe they’re standing there, silently laughing at me. Mrs. Robertson needs to see you to read you. Can she see me? I slide a few feet back toward the hall to the stairs.