So long as they don’t ask me—
“Any siblings?” Mrs. Cantrell asks the only question I don’t want to answer.
It would be so easy to lie.
I should lie.
“I had a sister. We lost her a long time ago too.” I set my fork down, needing a moment of stillness.
Cassandra tries to muffle a whimper at my side.
Mrs. Cantrell hovers her fingertips over her mouth. “Were they all in an accident?”
I almost smile. How different my life would be if it had been as simple as that.
“Mom,” Cassandra hisses.
“No accident.” I’m in it now. And a part of me feels like I owe it to my family to be honest right now. “My parents died of pneumonia.”
“Oh Lord,” Mrs. Cantrell lowers her hand to press over her heart. “At the same time?”
“Oh my god, Mom! You can’t ask that.”
I reach over and set my hand on top of Cassandra’s, where it sits on the table between our plates. “It’s alright.” I finally meet my neighbor’s eyes, and they’re as full of emotion as I knew they would be. “It was twenty years ago.” I turn back toward her mom. “A week apart.”
Cassandra’s hand tenses under mine, so I flex my fingers around hers.
Mrs. Cantrell wipes at her cheek. “Oh, Hans. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Before I can tell her it’s okay, and before Cassandra can remind her that she said not to ask, Mr. Cantrell leans forward.
“What happened to your sister?”
“Dad!” Cassandra slaps her free hand down on the other side of her plate.
When I meet the older man’s eyes, I have a gnawing suspicion that he wasn’t just communications.
“She was murdered.” The words drag against my throat on their way out.
What I don’t say is that we found her body two months before my parents gave up on living. And how, for four long weeks before that, we hadn’t known where she was. Hadn’t been able to find her or the people who stole her.
Both women at the table make sounds of distress.
I turn to Cassandra. “It’s okay.”
She’s shaking her head, and I watch one tear, then another, drip off her lashes. “It’s not okay.” She looks at her dad, vibrating with those big feelings. “You can’t just ask people stuff like that.”
“I’m fine.” I tell her the lie.
She stares up at me, not hearing. “I’m so sorry, Hans. We shouldn’t have—”
“Cassandra.” My tone is stern, finally stopping her flurry of words. “It’s okay.”
I watch her lower lip tremble.
“I’m okay.” That’s closer to the truth.
Cassandra sniffs, and another tear rolls down her cheek, then she pushes her chair back and stands. “We’ll just be a minute,” she tells her parents, then grabs my hand and pulls me the way we came, around the corner and down the short hall to the front door.
“You don’t need to—” But she stops me by throwing her arms around my waist, holding me tightly.
My body stiffens. All my muscles still, with my arms held out wide.
Then I feel her chest hitch against mine, and I let old instincts take over. I hug her back.
With my arms wrapped around her, I lower my face to the top of her head and breathe.
Her feminine scent fills my lungs.
“I’m okay.” I whisper it this time.
Because I’m starting to realize that I’m really not. The loss of my family two decades ago is still raw. Even my memories…
I can’t think about any of them without thinking about their deaths. How they died. How I couldn’t… didn’t save any of them.
I close my eyes and hold Cassandra tighter.
The last hug I received was from my father. The night before he let the illness take him.
It wasn’t an embrace like this.
It was frail. Shaky.
And it ended with him pointing to a carved wooden box at the side of his bed.
A dying man’s wish.
“I’m so sorry.” Cassandra’s voice is a mumble against my chest.
I inhale her compassion, letting it trickle into the empty corners inside me. I rub my hand up and down her side. “Thank you.”
She shakes her head against me, and her back hitches against my hold. “I should’ve stopped them.”
I wrap my arms tighter around her. “Hush, Butterfly.” I press my lips to her hair. “Please stop crying.”
She sniffs.