My mother and sister found a dead body once. We lived in a small town tucked between the bay and the ocean. They were walking through the dunes toward the beach. They came across a woman who had drowned and whose body returned to shore. She was beyond saving, white, cold, spirit gone. I have often wondered what she looked like: if they could see her eyes, whether her skin was turning gray. If I had been with my mother, I’d have clung to the memory of this day. My sister was no more than seven, and when she told me, she didn’t seem rattled; she was more interested in reading the newest Harry Potter. Her friend Tess showed me a letter, only a few sentences long, that Sarah sent her.
Dear Tess, how are you? I am fine. You will never guess what happened to me a few days ago. Me and my mom were walking down the beach and we found a dead body. It was so scary. I know you think I am lying but I am not, I am still really scared. I got the 4th Harry Potter book and so far, it’s really good, I bought two so you can have one. Hope you have fun at camp. Love, Sarah
P.S. please write me back, I love you.
Here I am, filling pages and pages with longing for her body.
Sarah slept like a windmill; her legs and arms kicking and tossing the covers as she dreamed. I refused to share a bed with her. She had small hands and bit her nails obsessively until she started wearing fake ones: long, plastic things that made it difficult for her to text. She liked it when I made her fly; I lay on my back and tucked my feet just under her rib cage, lifting her body with my outstretched legs until we reached one perfect moment of balance.
A letter to Tess
She broke her nose when she was seven, playing near the pool at my stepmother’s house. There was no railing on the surrounding porch, just a drop-off to earth and trees. I was standing near the house, watching her run laps around the pool, when she tripped and flew off the deck. I saw her small body hang in midair for half a breath and then heard the resounding thud as she hit the ground. I was in shock, couldn’t make my feet move toward her.
My stepmother, normally slow due to the effects of chronic Lyme disease, raced off the deck and down toward my sister. She carried Sarah up to the house and laid her on the kitchen table. Her face was covered in dirt and blood. Her nose looked like misshapen putty, and I could see packed earth in her nostrils. I felt myself growing faint, ears ringing, eyes blurring. As I wobbled toward the floor, my sister sat up and grabbed my hand. “I’m going to be okay, sissy.” I can’t help but wonder if it was moments like this that convinced Sarah that I could not help her when she was hurting, that taught her she would have to take care of me even when she was in trouble.
Here I am, still looking for her help.