Leaving Edward Zimmer to take the water-damaged boxes to the Dumpster, Rebecca drove home and, three blocks from her front door, she felt a pain in her chest. It was severe, but by the time she’d pulled over it was gone. Her hands remained shaky, and she was suddenly quite tired. She felt confident that she could make it home, but her fatigue worsened as she drove.
Having parked her car on a side street behind her house, Rebecca was so tired that she was barely able to unlock her front door, and she fell asleep the moment she reached the couch.
She saw herself sitting at the kitchen table in the Toronto apartment Lisa had shared with Lewis, but whether she was dreaming or remembering was impossible to tell. She was dressed in flannel pyjamas patterned with tiny ducks. They were children’s pyjamas, but they fit Rebecca well. She watched as her sister made breakfast. Lisa put two slices of bread in the toaster. She ground beans and began making coffee. Then Lisa put her hands flat against the counter, keeping her back to Rebecca.
“I’ve decided to forgive you,” Lisa said.
The toast popped. Rebecca watched as Lisa smeared forgiveness onto it. She dumped two heaping spoonfuls of forgiveness into a mug and filled it with coffee. Lisa carried the toast and the coffee from the counter to the table, setting both in front of Rebecca. She sat across the table and looked at her expectantly.
Rebecca took a tiny bite of the toast. The forgiveness was very bitter and she could hardly swallow. She took a sip of the coffee, which tasted no better.
“All of it?” Rebecca asked.
Lisa nodded.
Rebecca ate more of the toast and drank more of the coffee. The taste of forgiveness filled her mouth and lined the inside of her throat with something sticky and black. It sat heavily in her stomach. When there was nothing but crumbs on her plate and grounds at the bottom of the mug, Rebecca looked up. Lisa stood and stretched out her arms. They embraced. The hug continued, but Lisa began getting thinner and thinner. Before Rebecca understood what was happening, her sister disappeared.
Rebecca woke up. She could still taste the forgiveness in her mouth. She took off her shoes and socks and put her bare feet against the floor. She sat on the edge of the couch for several minutes, staring at the carpet. She was able to recall her sister’s death in two vastly different ways: in one, she thinned until she disappeared; in the other, she died because of a tiny hole in her aorta. Each way seemed equally authentic, but neither made Rebecca sad.