The blood drains from Kit’s face. Guilt-stricken, I gaze out the window. The snow has slowed. I watch the lazy descent of each flake as it swirls toward its final resting place. I think of tongues and eyelashes and the open palm of a tiny mitten, all the homes the flurries claim as their own. I remember Kit and me standing on a sidewalk in snowsuits during a trip to visit our uncle, two kids with our heads tipped back, like we’d seen on TV, like those women leaving the cafeteria.
I make myself continue. “She begged me, Kit. She told me she asked you first, but you said no. She wanted to do it while you were gone. She was trying to spare you the pain.”
Her lips are turning as white as the rest of her face. “I told her no because you and I agreed we wanted her to fight. I never said goodbye.”
I sit on the bed and stare at my feet. “She told me she said her goodbye. Before you left for the bachelorette party, she told you how much she loved you, how proud she was.”
Kit’s eyes harden. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to her.”
Neither of us says anything.
“You took that from me.” A single tear spills down her cheek. “You got to hold her hand and tell her you loved her. Comfort her while she took her last breaths.”
I don’t deny it. My head begins to throb in tempo with my lip.
Kit wrings her hands. “Did you both think so little of me that you thought I couldn’t cope? That I would rather miss out on saying goodbye to my own mother than face the pain?”
I soften my tone further. “I was carrying out her wishes, Kit.” How many times have I cursed Mom for putting me in this position, cursed myself for agreeing to it? Surely Mom knew I couldn’t lie to my sister forever. She couldn’t have expected I’d take her secret to my grave.
“Bullshit,” Kit spits. “This was your last chance to be her favorite. To be the one she chose for once.”
I flinch at the truth of it. For years I’ve spent night after sleepless night lying in bed, interrogating my motivations. Did I truly act out of selflessness, a desire to help our mother, shoulder the emotional burden, and bring a horrible wish to fruition? Or did I, the lifelong third wheel, want to be the only daughter at her side while she lay dying? I go cotton-mouthed every time I debate it.
Kit clutches her chest like her heart is giving out. “I can’t believe my own sister would do this to me.” I hang my head. “You’ve kept it from me all this time. For two years I wanted to crawl out of my skin with guilt for not being there. You were never going to let me be there.” She leans over, hugging her chest to her thighs. “This is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
“I’m sorry,” I say almost inaudibly, wishing I could take her in my arms but knowing she’d only push me away because that’s who Kit is now. My bear-hugging, hair-braiding, piggybacking sister has become untouchable.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
We sit for a long time, me with my head bowed on the bed, her folded in half on the desk chair. The sun finishes rising. The snow stops. Still we sit there, not speaking. Sobs, a tantrum, a lecture—anything would be better than this gulf of silence.
“Say something. What are you thinking?”
She lifts her face off her knees, eyes tired in a way I haven’t seen since Mom’s funeral. She opens her mouth to speak.
I hold my breath.
41
Kit
DECEMBER 28, 2019
I PULLED THE laptop out of the bottom desk drawer and turned it on, drumming my fingers on the keyboard while keeping an eye on the closed door. Teacher’s bedroom and office were the only rooms on the island without any cameras. I had thirty minutes until she was showered and out of the bathroom.
A splash of color in the drawer caught my eye. The laptop had been sitting on top of a painting. I picked up the canvas, then saw there were two more underneath. I laid them all on the desk—eight-by-ten-inch paintings of a woman from behind. Teacher was the subject. In one a plastic bag was tied over her head. In another her body was on fire. In the third her head was turned to the side, blood gushing from her tongue. In the background of every painting was an audience, wide-eyed and dazzled.
In the bottom left corner of each canvas was an identical set of illegible initials. I flipped the paintings over. Scrawled on the back was a message: Yours in fearlessness, The Five.
I had no idea who The Five was, but Jeremiah had been right about this much: Teacher had once been a performer.
The computer’s home screen loaded and requested a password. Panicked, I opened the top left drawer of the desk. It was full of hanging file folders. Halfway back was a tab for each IC member, filed alphabetically like Jeremiah had promised. The one with my name on it called to me. I ignored it—I wasn’t here to pore over my file. I only wanted to see if Jeremiah’s story was true.