It takes over an hour to get to my mother’s house. My partner is driving, even though I get carsick when I am a passenger. I cannot remember how to steer or shift gears. My dog, Charlotte, sits between us. The dark trees and mountain roads that I normally find soothing have turned against me. I have spent my life wanting my mother to be unequivocally proud of me. I have failed her.
Now I am the messenger that will shatter her being. I will be the unholy thing that snuffs out the divine light that was my sister. My mother will be left to face a darkness that I cannot begin to understand. Sarah is dead, and I am the daughter that remains, guilty of still breathing.
The truck makes a sharp turn, and I try to fight off the nausea that has moved out of my stomach and into my throat. I cannot tell if it is drizzling or if fog has crept in. Things don’t look like they are supposed to. This is a copy of a world that existed just moments ago. Take me back to the before. I will give you anything I have, all my gold and gifts and words. I will erase every future page to return to my old life.
There is an alternate universe where I am the protector; I hold the head of the slayed beast high, and my family cheers, for I have saved them all. This is not that place. This is the place of ruin and stories that will end with and then she died. What good am I? I cannot even build a time machine. I should have studied science. I should have been a great many things. Now I am a sister without a sister, a daughter with a terrible task.
We are close. I look at my hands, and they appear monstrous. I wonder if anyone else will be able to see what I have become. The truck turns down the gravel driveway. I can see headlights on at the end of the road. She is in her car, about to leave to see friends or buy milk or watch a movie. She is about to do anything but hear the news I have to tell her.
I get out of the truck. She leaves the headlights on and opens the door. I go through the gate. I hear her before I see her.
“Rose?” she says.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I don’t respond or move forward, and I can feel her worry grow. “Is it Charlotte? Did she die?” I look back at my sweet dog, who is still in the truck, her small face visible even through the light rain.
“No, it’s not Charlotte.” I walk to my mother. I look at her and wish I could make the next moment stretch infinitely, stand here forever until the sun has burned out and other galaxies have formed and the death of one girl will be inconsequential because we will all have perished.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Mom,” I say. “It’s Sarah. She’s dead.”
And in five words, I undo a life.