I sit down next to her. She doesn’t see me. She is focused on her body’s inability to live. She vomits into her open hands and puts her mouth to the wet warmth, trying to swallow it back into her body. She shits and tries to coax the waste back into her bowels. There is a mix of foam and blood coming out of her nose that she begs to return to her nostrils.
It’s not working, I say. She looks at me, noticing my presence. She is more scared than I have ever seen her, more scared than the time she jumped in a wasp’s nest and I had to pull her out, more scared than when she held our father’s hand while he was dying.
I don’t want to die, she says.
I know.
Can you help me?
I put my arm around her trembling body. She smells like sweet vinegar.
No, I say. Why don’t you tell me a story while we wait?
She nods. She waits for a tremor to pass through her arms and legs before she starts.
I was going to have a baby. She pauses. I thought that if I had a baby, I would never want to use again. I didn’t know whose it was, but I didn’t care. She was going to have eyes like ours and smell like warm milk and flour.
What happened? I ask, gently, even though I already know.
I lost it, she says quietly. Her skin is tinged blue, and the whites of her eyes look like they can fall out of their sockets any second now. She’s here now, can you see her?
I look around but only see Sarah.
No, I say.
She looks like us. She leans her head back against the bathroom door. I fucked things up.
We both did.
He killed me, you know?
I won’t find that out for a while.
But one day?
Yes, I answer her, one day. It won’t do much good, but we will know.
She looks relieved. Good. Her breathing is shallow and sporadic.
It won’t be long now. I lean into her as I say this, hoping the warmth of my body will travel to her blood.
I’m scared. I think she is crying when she says this. I do not look at her. I lay her head in my lap and stroke her hair. Her body sings out with one final spasm. I hold tight until she is unbearably still.
Do you want to hear a story? I say. I know she will not respond.
I lay her on the tile floor. It is cold in here. She is cold. I lie next to her and wrap my arms around her body. I ignore the shit and vomit and mucus. The house is quiet save for the dog, who is knocking things over in the living room and howling at the bathroom door.
On the day you were born, you came out of the womb fighting, twisted your body in the birth canal but corrected your stuck shoulder before the doctor could go in himself. The first time I held you, I remember thinking you were tough.
This is where she began. I don’t want her to forget.
We have time, I say. Let me fill your bones with all the words I know. On the first day, I speak of fairy queens and impossibly magic things. You built altars deep in the forest, small kingdoms of wood, leaf, and flower. The structures remain, singing out the echoes of two girls who believed in everything.
On the second day, I talk about the weight of trauma, the fragments of our lives we didn’t author. My divine love, don’t forget our grandfather could breathe fire and our father spent his whole life looking for smoke. Did you know you were more than just his daughter? If she could, our mother would paint you back into existence. She would cover your body with gold leaf and feathers. She would crown you with deer horns and whisper witch words into your lungs until you took your second, first breath.
On the third day, I tell her love is not enough. I will search for you in every crowd. I will dream you are outside my door and only I can welcome you into my home. I am afraid you never felt welcome. You are welcome here. You are unequivocally welcome to take root inside my chest. Hollow out my rib cage, I will carry anything you want to leave there. If love were enough, you would still be here.
On the evening of the fourth day, I hear the door of the house open and someone say, What the fuck.
I know I have to leave now.
I’m scared, I tell her. I consider shaking her. Footsteps come closer to the bathroom. I’m scared, I say again, loudly. But it is just me, and soon it will be just her and the boy who will find her body.
This is how she dies.