“Rose,” Mom said, her expression guarded. “What are you doing here?”
I almost laughed. No contact in almost four weeks and that's the first thing she says. At least she had the decency to look embarrassed.
“I mean, how are you?” She hesitated. “Do you want to come in?”
I nodded and pushed past her, not trusting myself to speak just yet. I walked through the front living area and into the kitchen without a word. Everything looked the same as it had a month ago. My anxiety began to increase as I sat down at the table, placing the folder squarely in front of me. My fingers trembled and my heart began to pound as I wondered whether or not I was ready for this. I had to be sure. If what Harmony had said was true, would I be able to live with that?
“Can I trouble you for a glass of water?” I asked, keeping my voice formal.
My mother frowned and nodded. I watched in silence as she filled two glasses with cold water from the fridge. Her movements were forced, almost robotic.
I found the lack of emotion Mom was showing almost sickening. I might as well have been some random stranger who had turned up out of the blue, asking to use the bathroom. Her expression was almost one of disdain.
She set the water in front of me. “Your father will be home soon. What's this about?”
Great. Now she sounded annoyed. I swallowed the anger bubbling inside me, forcing it back down. I needed to focus right now. I reached into the folder and retrieved the birth certificate.
Eve Wilson. Born on January 2, 1994. Then I passed her the death certificate. Died October 18, 1996. Cause of death: Accident.
I watched as Mom’s face went white. She stared at the documents, her eyes wide, as if she didn't dare look at me.
“I had a sister,” I said, matter-of-fact.
Mom nodded slowly. Shock rushed through me. I'd been expecting it, the evidence was right there. She couldn't exactly deny it, but seeing her in agreement it made it all the more real.
“How did she die?”
Silence.
“How did she die?” I repeated, anger seeping into my tone.
Mom cleared her throat. “Rose, it was an accident.” Her hand rose to her mouth and covered it as tears began to well in her eyes. “How did you even find this?”
“How I found out isn't important,” I replied.
I wiped my sweaty palms on the rough fabric of my jeans, trying desperately to regain control. There was one final document, but it was the hardest one to confront her with. The pounding in my chest became so loud and so severe that I could feel it pressing against my rib cage, as though my heart was going to explode out of my chest. I grabbed the document and slapped it down in front of her. No words were necessary; it was all there in black and white.
Her face screwed up as she read the coroner's report on my sister's death. I closed my eyes and read along with her, the words from that report forever imprinted on my mind.
“ . . . two-year-old Eve Wilson died after ingesting a fatal cocktail of sleeping pills and antidepressants on the afternoon of October 18, 1996. Rose Wilson, aged five, was found alongside her sister, barely conscious. It is the opinion of the coroner that the overdoses were accidental after the Rose and Eve discovered an open bottle of sleeping pills on their parent’s bedside table. The pills had been left open and unattended by the children’s’ mother, Alison Wilson.”
“ . . . accident that could have been prevented . . . ”
“. . . tragic event that was foreseeable . . .”
Mom shook her head and pushed the papers back towards me. “I don't want to talk about this. Talking about it is not going to change anything. It won't bring her back, and it won't change you.”
“We are going to talk about this. How could you keep something like this from me?”
My mother laughed. She sounded almost cold. “What exactly was I supposed to say, Rose? At what point was I supposed to work that into the conversation? Between your numerous suicide attempts, maybe?” Her tone was mocking. I glanced at her, confused.
“You blame me. You blame me for her death,” I mumbled. Suddenly everything began to fall into place.
“I don't blame you, Rose. Don't be ridiculous,” Mom huffed.
It was an accident. It had happened, and it wasn’t my fault.
“Rose . . .”