6

Becca

Brit wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of anything. That was part of her problem—she never knew when to quit. She would poke and prod until she got what she wanted. He was much the same way. This meeting was destined to be an all-out battle.

We ate a late dinner that night, grilled cheese and tomato soup, without her. During the middle of it, a cold throbbing pain sliced through my head. Quick and unwavering. The ache made my eyes cross and I spilled my milk all over the table, which put Mom in a tizzy. She didn’t like anything to be out of order. We understood each other in that way.

I knew what the ache was, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it. Brit was always talking about metaphysical phenomena with twins. She was constantly showing me studies and reading me all kinds of stories and bizarre anecdotes. I’d never been interested. Never believed. But the pain I felt now? I knew, without a doubt, that it was Brit’s.

Figured. It was the first thought that came to me. Not panic or sadness or concern. Just the irritation that she was trying to control me again.

Brit always wanted to share everything. Though it was imperative that she went first. First to talk, walk, and ride her bike. First to get her period and first kiss. But she wanted me to be close behind. I still have scars on my legs from my first bike-riding lesson to prove it. The day she put me on a bike and sent me sailing down our sloped driveway.

She was bothering me all day to try out my new bike. We’d gotten them for our birthdays. Mom found them at a garage sale and Dad painted them to look like pink twins. It’d been over a month and I hadn’t so much as looked at the thing. Then the nudging and jabbing started and I knew Brit wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

I gave up and joined her outside, where she had both bikes out on display. She flicked up the kickstand and leaned the frame toward me so I could climb on. She held on to the bike to steady me, because my feet only grazed the ground. I felt so unstable and it made me sick to my stomach.

“Don’t worry,” Brit said. “I’ve got you. I won’t let go until you’re ready.”

“Not yet,” I said, trying to warm up to the idea. “Not yet.”

I put my feet on the pedals, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. And that’s when she let go. She not only let go but pushed me down the driveway. My eyes snapped open and everything was a blur. The trees that canopied the sidewalk; the patchy grass of our lawn; the cars parked in the street.

“You’re doing it, Bee,” Brit screamed. “You’re really doing it.”

She seemed almost proud of me for a moment. Though when I hit the curb that removed half the skin on my legs, I was the one who ruined everything.

Sadly, her later ideas about how to keep me locked in her shadow were even more painful.

As much as I wanted to ignore the feeling now, I couldn’t. The pain told me that something had gone terribly wrong with the plan. And here I was, cursing Brit’s name in my head while making small talk with Mom and Dad. Still, I couldn’t say anything about it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

After we cleared the table and did the dishes, Mom grabbed her laptop to get caught up on email while Dad and I watched the news. This wasn’t my typical M.O. I didn’t spend time hanging out with the family when I could help it, but I didn’t want to be alone.

That’s when the doorbell rang, and I immediately realized I’d been waiting for it.

Dad got up and pulled the curtain back to reveal police officers at the door.

“Oh, great,” he said. A police visit wasn’t all that uncommon in our neighborhood, so Dad wasn’t too concerned when he answered the door. Two fairly young officers—one white and one black—stood there. I watched from the couch.

“Mr. Waters?” the white one asked as the cool autumn air filled the cozy room.

“Yes,” Dad stuttered. Even if police at the door wasn’t unusual, having them address you by name was.

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the cop said.

The conversation moved quickly, and I could barely tell who said what. I sifted through the officers’ condolences and my parent’s hysteria to gather the pertinent pieces of information I needed:

Brit.

Car accident.

Coma.

Bad shape.

Hospital.

We needed to leave immediately, but Mom and Dad were in shock or something. They fumbled around the house, running into each other, until I started barking orders. They were such children sometimes. I grabbed coats and keys and purses, stuffed my parents into the car, and rushed to Ford Hospital.

Turns out there was no need to hurry.