Julia's Daughters

I’m lying in my bed listening to She Who Shall Not Be Named bounce that stupid ball against the wall in her room while I consider what outfit I would want to wear for my own funeral. It was a big question when Caitlin went for the big sleep. Dad wanted her to wear this blue dress she’d had since eighth grade graduation. It looked like something a girl my age would wear to have tea with the queen of England. It didn’t have ruffles, but it could have. I’m sure it was something Nana bought her that Mom made her wear. I don’t even know why Caitlin still had it. So Dad wanted the little girl dress. Mom wanted to send Caitlin’s favorite jeans and T-shirt to the funeral home.

I didn’t get a vote. Neither did the one who killed her.

Mom and Dad didn’t exactly argue about which outfit the people at the funeral home should put on Caitlin. They don’t argue much; at least I don’t see it. But that day, I could hear them talking in her bedroom after they went into her closet. Each one just kept repeating what they wanted and why. Mom cried a lot, of course. I don’t know why they cared. No one got to see what she was wearing. There was no viewing. I didn’t get to see her dead even though I begged Mom to let me. (She said it wasn’t healthy, whatever that meant.) I think Caitlin’s head was pretty messed up from where she hit the road when she went through the windshield. The funeral home incinerated her. That’s what they do when you’re cremated. I looked it up. They cook you at fourteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It takes two to three hours. There’s a YouTube video showing how they do it. I watch it sometimes when I can’t sleep.

I wonder if Caitlin ever thought about what she wanted to be cooked in, if she died. I doubt it. She wasn’t weird like me. She didn’t think about things like that. She was what people call happy-go-lucky. Who wouldn’t be if they were tall and blond and pretty and smart? We never talked about dying, although I once had a goldfish that went belly-up in its fishbowl and she helped me bury it near the blue rhododendron in the backyard. She read a poem by Robert Frost. I remember it because one of the sentences was “Nothing gold can stay.” The same poem is quoted in this book I like called The Outsiders. But as far as the possibility of people dying, we never talked about it in the Maxton house. Not Caitlin and me. Not Mom and Dad and me. I never even knew a dead person until Caitlin bought it in that intersection.

Mr. Cat, who’s been sitting on the end of the bed, climbs up on me and lies down on my chest. I pet him and he purrs. “You missed birthday dinner at Nana’s,” I tell him. “Uncle Bruce got drunk. Uncle Jeremy’s new girlfriend gave Nana a really ugly wreath for her front door and everyone ignored Mom like she wasn’t there. I guess because she hasn’t been coming for family dinners and they’re mad at her. We had chocolate cheesecake for dessert.”

Mr. Cat doesn’t say anything. He just keeps purring. I’m not saying I’m expecting him to say anything. I know cats don’t talk. But there’s still a little tiny bit of a question in the back of my head because dead sisters aren’t supposed to talk either.

I close my eyes for a minute, wondering if maybe Caitlin is there in the dark with me. I can’t feel her. I think about calling her name, just in case, but I don’t really need her right now, so I don’t. I’m a little worried that maybe she can only come talk to me a certain number of times before she can’t come anymore. Like a genie in a lamp granting wishes. Before her soul goes away, or whatever. I don’t want to take the chance of wasting time with her. So I don’t call her.

“Oh,” I tell Mr. Cat. “And I think Mom and Nana got into an argument in the powder room.” I kiss his head and his ear tickles my lips. “I have no idea why they were both in the bathroom with the door closed. I was just—”

There’s a soft tap at my door and me and Mr. Cat look that way. We both stare at the door. My first thought is that it’s Caitlin, but that doesn’t make any sense because I think she just comes through doors and walls and stuff.

I hear it again. It’s definitely a live person, not a dead one.

The door opens a little bit. “Izzy? You still awake?”

It’s my mom and I’m so happy. She never comes in my room anymore. “I’m awake,” I whisper loudly, sitting up and pushing Mr. Cat off me.

She comes in and closes the door. It’s dark in my room, but I can still see her because there’s a big security light outside my window and even with the blinds closed, a little bit of light leaks around. She’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. Her pajamas. She just stands there over my bed for a second looking down at me. I can’t see her face. Then she surprises me by sitting down and then sliding into bed with me, putting her head on my pillow.

“I was wondering how you were doing,” she says softly. She rolls onto her side to face me and puts one arm around me.

Mom’s arm feels so good around me that I feel like I might cry.

Mr. Cat tries to climb on top of me again, but I push him down. He meows, but he doesn’t get off the bed. “I’m okay.” I whisper too, but not because Mom’s whispering. I whisper because I’m afraid if I talk out loud, she’ll disappear the same way Caitlin disappears.

Mom brushes some hair out of my face and then keeps touching my hair. Kind of like petting me. But I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. I close my eyes and breathe deep. She must have taken a shower this morning because I smell her shampoo. She hasn’t been showering much, so I notice it right away. But past that fruity smell is something I can’t describe. It’s just . . . my mom’s smell. A smell that makes me feel warm and not so afraid.

“Really, Izzy?” she asks me, kissing my temple. “You’re okay? You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

I don’t know exactly what she’s asking. How I’m coping with Caitlin pushing up daisies, I guess. But maybe she’s asking about school. Or my friends. I don’t really care; it only matters that she cares. I nod because I don’t want to break the magic spell and for Mom to poof away, into thin air.

“How was dinner tonight? Was it okay?” She’s still petting me and I close my eyes.

I nod again. “Was it okay for you?” I whisper.

When she doesn’t answer right away, I say, “You didn’t look like it was okay.” I’m quiet for a second and then I say, “What did Nana say to you in the bathroom? I heard you arguing.”

“We weren’t exactly arguing.”

I don’t say anything.

“Did anyone else hear us?” Mom asks.

I shake my head. “Just me, I think. I wasn’t sneaking around being nosy or anything. I went into the kitchen to get more pom juice and I heard you.” The powder room is in the hall between the kitchen and the family room.

It takes her a long time to say anything. Mr. Cat stretches out beside me on the edge of the bed. It seems like he’s purring really loud.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Mom finally says.

“I didn’t hear what you guys were saying,” I tell her quickly. “I just . . . I could hear your voices. Like Nana was telling you something you should be doing. Nana does that a lot,” I add. “She thinks I should cut my hair short. I told her I’d look like a dork, but every time I see her, she pulls my hair back kind of tight and says it looks good on my round face. She thinks I’m fat and I have a fat face.”

“You don’t have a fat face,” Mom whispers. “You have a beautiful face, Isobel of mine.” She kisses me again.

I feel the tears coming back and I swallow. I think about telling her how glad I am she came into my bedroom. I think about telling her how much I’ve missed her since Caitlin flatlined. It’s almost like Mom’s been dead too. But I don’t want her to feel bad. She already feels bad; you can just look at her face and see it. Sometimes I think she looks so bad that she might die too. I don’t know if that’s a real thing, but I’ve heard of it. Dying of a broken heart. And I know Mom’s heart is broken. Caitlin was her favorite. She was the prettiest. She was the smartest. She wasn’t weird.

Haley and I used to tease Caitlin about how she was Mom and Dad’s favorite. The princess in pink, Haley called her. It was kind of fun because Caitlin and Haley were best friends, but when we started ragging on Caitlin, it was like Haley and me were a team. I never minded that Caitlin was Mom and Dad’s favorite and I don’t think Haley did either, because in a way, it took the pressure off us. I never worried about not being pretty because Caitlin was pretty for all of us. And it was okay for me to be weird because I wasn’t the princess in pink. In a way, it was freeing. I don’t think Haley would have felt like she could wear all that black eye pencil or be in the drama club if it had been her responsibility to be the family princess.

“And as for what your grandmother and I were talking about,” Mom goes on. “We were discussing . . .”

“Her,” I say, exhaling the word with contempt. Contempt. Another vocab word at school.

“Haley,” she says.

“Because she got kicked out of school?” I ask. “And because she’s crazy?”

“Your sister’s not crazy.”

“She’s batshit crazy,” I say before I can stop myself. I look at her, afraid I’m going to get in trouble for saying shit. I’m not supposed to say shit. Usually I just say “S.”

But Mom doesn’t say anything about my bad word. She doesn’t say anything for a minute and when she does speak, she sounds like she’s talking to herself more than to me. “Haley’s not crazy. She’s just . . . really hurting.”

I think for a minute. “Well, we could send her to school in Switzerland,” I suggest hopefully. I saw a documentary about the Alps. This guy called Hannibal tried to cross the mountains with a bunch of elephants. It didn’t work out too well. “She might like it there and we could go visit and go skiing in the Alps.”

Mom sort of laughs, which makes me smile and wish I could think of something else funny to say to make her laugh again. I love how she laughs. She sounds like Caitlin. Or I guess, technically, Caitlin sounded like her.

“I’m not sending her to Switzerland. I’m not sending your sister anywhere, Izzy. She belongs with us. Now, more than ever,” she adds, so softly that I have to listen hard to hear her.

Luckily, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Mom doesn’t say anything, either, and after a while, I start to feel sleepy. Mom’s so warm and she smells so good and Mr. Cat keeps purring.

A part of me doesn’t want to fall asleep and have the time with her over, but finally I let myself go, thinking that if I happen to croak in my sleep tonight, this is the perfect memory I’ll die with.