it weighs too much.

  But she makes a face.

  Her teeth just showing.

  A thin and almost-not-there

  face.

  Momma comes bouncing in then,

  her voice announcing herself,

  too loud for this

  quiet moment.

  You getting her to talk,

  Hope?

  Momma says.

  I couldn’t get her to say

  nothing.

  Doctor says it’s normal.

  Momma waits

  to hear from me,

  something she doesn’t do.

  She talking to you?

  Liz’s eyes are closed now.

  She’s moved her hand

  from mine.

  Like we weren’t

  touching

  at

  all

  before.

  I don’t know why

  but I lie.

  She didn’t say a thing,

  I say.

  I just been whispering to her.

  Talking

  about Ian St. Clair.

  I don’t look Momma in the eye.

  Instead,

  I pat Liz’s long auburn hair.

  Braided.

  Let me say one

  last thing to your sister

  here,

  Momma says.

  You go wait by the front desk.

  So I go . . .

  sort of.

  Really I stand right next

  to the door

  of my sister’s room.

  But I can’t hear anything

  being

  said, even though I strain to.

  48.

  Momma got me a

  Ouija board last

  Christmas.

  I am sure it’s broken.

  Doesn’t work, not even a little bit.

  Unless

  I help it out some.

  Except . . .

  Before,

  just after her crying started,

  me and Liz

  played on that ol’ board

  sitting on the living room floor,

  game propped

  on our knees.

  I made up answers to

  her questions.

  Does Matthew Earl

  like me better’n a friend?

  she said.

  Yes,

  the board answered,

  with me just

  smiling.

  Am I pretty?

  Beautiful,

  the board said,

  me wanting to laugh.

  Will I die young?

  Will

  I

  Die

  Young

  49.

  I turned to ice,

  dripping slow,

  leaking,

  in the heat of that question.

  Will I die

  young?

  What kind of

  question was that?

  I swallowed,

  glanced at my sister.

  She stared at the planchette,

  waiting for an answer.

  Behind her

  I saw the night sky

  held back

  by the single French door

  and that yellowed lace curtain.

  I saw the pale line

  of the part on her head,

  her hair, wavy,

  and falling forward.

  I have always wanted hair that color.

  Not so blond as mine is.

  It’s not saying anything,

  Liz said.

  Give it time.

  I said in a whisper.

  How do I fix

  this?

  I thought.

  I have to take care of

  Lizzie.

  And she has to take care of me.

  There was something

  heavy

  in my stomach.

  But I jiggled

  the beige pointer

  like it was getting a breath of

  life.

  It’s going,

  Liz said.

  She straightened,

  waiting.

  The board on our knees.

  Our fingertips just

  touching

  the tear-shaped playing piece.

  I glanced again at Liz.

  Couldn’t see the freckles on her face,

  just that crooked part of hers

  in her hair.

  Would it be a lie this time too?

  I wondered.

  You will live a long, peaceful life,

  I wanted to say.

  But before I could do anything,

  the pointer started

  on its own.

  In a smooth,

  slow,

  steady

  pace

  it made its way down

  to the word

  good-bye.

  And stopped.

  Just stopped.

  Liz looked at me

  and I know my

  eyes were surprised.

  You moved that,

  I said.

  I didn’t,

  she said.

  You did,

  I said.

  She shook her head

  no.

  I spoke too

  fast.

  You’re staying

  with me forever,

  I said,

  knocking the board

  from our knees,

  hugging her

  close.

  She didn’t hug me

  back.

  I mean that,

  I said.

  I mean it.

  But that awful feeling,

  that I-can’t-breathe feeling,

  would not go

  away.

  50.

  Here’s the deal:

  On the drive home

  from the hospital

  and my first visit

  with her

  I think of Liz’s words,

  to be careful.

  I think about them

  the whole hour

  home.

  And I cannot figure it out.

  Why be careful?

  Of what?

  Of who?

  Does something wait in the dark

  for me?

  Did something wait in

  the dark for Liz?

  I think hard about

  her changes.

  Think of when

  the crying began.

  When was it my sister

  decided going was

  better than

  staying?

  When was it I

  had to be

  careful?

  51.

  Why,

  Liz said to me,

  when I came home

  one morning

  from a sleepover.

  Why have you been

  gone so long?

  What?

  I said

  and threw

  my backpack on my

  bed, turning to

  Liz.

  Why?

  Liz was angry,

  really angry.

  I was at Mari’s,

  I said.

  It was a sleepover.

  Her face went red and I saw

  tears come into her

  eyes.

  She walked up close to me.

  So close I could

  see where her bottom teeth

  overlapped

  just a bit.

  Her voice was a fat whisper.

  You,

  she said, pointing

  right in my face,

  you

  are

  always

  gone.

  For the rest of the day,

  no matter how hard

  I tried to get her to,

  Lizzie

  wouldn’t speak to me.

  That night,

  when the sun

  tucked itself in

  Lizzie

  started to whimper

  then

  cry.

  Shut up!

  Momma hollered.

  Shut up

  shut up

  shut up!

  Momma slammed the door

  between our room

  and hers. I

  heard the lock

  click.

  Lizzie’s voice

  grew

  weary

  and I moved from my

  bed

  to where she lay

  curled in a lump.

  Let me under

  the covers

  with you,

  I said.

  Let me.

  Her crying scared me.

  Scared me

  something awful.

  I’m sorry,

  Liz

  said in her

  weeping,

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry

  to be mean to

  you, Hope.

  You’re not mean,

  Liz,

  I said.

  You should stay gone,

  she said.

  You should stay gone

  long as you can.

  I climbed into

  bed with

  my sister

  tickled her back

  and her arms

  and her face

  trying to calm her

  sobs.

  52.

  Hey, Hope?

  It’s Mari on the phone.

  Wanna come over,

  go swimming?

  It’s the day after the picnic

  and nothing

  got me last night

  when I crawled into bed

  and slid beneath the covers.

  You know it,

  I say.

  I change into my suit.

  It’s getting small on me.

  Growing bosoms,

  at last.

  Momma says

  becoming a woman

  is taking longer for

  me than Lizzie.

  Man, is she

  right.

  Lizzie

  looks way older,

  more than a year older

  than me.

  She’s bigger breasted,

  smaller waisted,

  more grown-up.

  Now I slip shorts

  over my bathing suit

  and go into the

  room I shared with

  Liz.

  It’s so lonely here

  without her.

  I walk

  into my room

  only to go to sleep.

  At night it’s harder to

  see the empty bed

  but easier to sleep

  without

  the crying.

  Before,

  not even that long ago,

  I got ready

  to go somewhere

  with Mari.

  Liz watched me,

  then said,

  Where you going?

  Where you going, Hope?

  To Mari’s,

  I said.

  Stay this time,

  she said.

  Stay with me.

  What? Uh-uh.

  Go visit a friend of your own,

  I told her,

  brushing my hair.

  Go hang out with

  Amanda or Cheri.

  Not hanging out with

  them anymore.

  Liz looked away

  like she was embarrassed.

  You fighting?

  Nope,

  she said.

  And kept looking away

  out the window away

  away from my eyes away.

  We’re still

  friends.

  I’m just not

  doing so much

  with anyone

  anymore.

  A deep breath.

  Besides, Momma doesn’t

  want me to go so much.

  She wants me here,

  Liz said.

  Not off.

  When’d she start

  to care if you’re here?

  I said.

  Lizzie let out

  a sigh

  big as our room.

  I guess it’s me, too.

  I don’t feel like going.

  Don’t feel like going?

  I said.

  That’s weird, girl.

  You go on,

  Liz said

  after a moment.

  You go, Hope.

  I’ll stay.

  So I left.

  Went off with Mari.

  Left

  Liz at home, watching me

  leave.

  Sometimes

  I would go

  for a whole weekend.

  Liz, she would

  stare after me,

  follow

  out onto the porch,

  and

  watch me pull

  my bike

  from the falling-down

  garage.

  She

  would watch me pedal

  down the street

  away from

  her.

  Waving good-bye

  like she didn’t quite mean it

  like she needed Amanda

  or Cheri

  like I needed Mari.

  I’d look back

  and there

  she’d be

  just a dot on the porch,

  still standing

  there.

  Alone.

  This memory

  is like bricks on me now.

  Heavy as a wall.

  My sister standing there

  alone.

  53.

  Some days

  I miss Liz

  so that it feels like

  a hand is tight around

  my throat.

  It feels like

  she has been gone years

  not just two and a half

  weeks.

  I remind myself

  what Momma has said—

  that we can visit Liz

  anytime we want

  now.

  I remind myself

  how we could

  go every day,

  if we wanted.

  But.

  I have my business,

  Momma says,

  when I ask for us to go

  more often.

  54.

  At Mari’s house we:

  1. Swim in her pool

  2. Picnic on the deck

  3. Talk about boys from school.

  But all the while

  I remember my sister,

  before,

  standing on the porch

  watching me

  go.

  55.

  On the way out

  of town,

  stuck back in the woods

  with only a hand-painted

  sign to mark it,

  is Miss Freeman’s store.

  Momma calls Miss Freeman

  white trash,

  with a capital W

  and a capital T. Even

  though she made us all

  that food

  when Daddy left us

  for good.

  Even though

  me and Liz stayed

  with Miss Freeman

  whilst Momma

  had her guests.

  Even though

  we’ve lived near her

  for years now.

  Miss Freeman is fat

  and old and

  missing teeth.

  WT,

  Momma says.

  Three teeth gone,

  all right there in the

  front, to be exact.

  She can’t read or write,

  neither.

  WT,

  Momma says.

  I’ve seen Miss Freeman in her store

  with

  blacks and whites,

  men and women,

  babies and teenagers.

  She treats everyone the same.

  Real nice.

  She runs this used clothing

  place just off the river.

  Four old rooms

  built from cinder block

  with handmade

  wooden tables

  piled high with clothes

  of every kind.

  I’ve found me some

  pretty stuff in there,

  sometimes as cheap as

  twenty-five cents an outfit.

  On Thursday afternoon,

  on the way to see Lizzie,

  Momma and me

  stop to shop.

  Momma doesn’t buy from used

  clothing stores,

  not for herself.

  But she wanted something

  for Liz.

  And I could do

  with a pair of cutoffs

  myself.

  The store is crowded

  because of a

  buy-one-get-one-free

  sale.

  Two for twenty-five cents

  today

  only,

  says a hand-lettered sign

  out on the road,

  with an arrow pointing this way

  to the store.

  I wonder,

  Who wrote that

  sign for Miss Freeman?

  One of her grown boys?

  A neighbor?

  I would have done it

  for her

  had I known.

  Can’t beat two for twenty-five cents

  with a stick,

  Momma says.

  She finds a little

  nightshirt with a puppy

  on the front

  for my sister.

  I want her out of

  those hospital clothes,

  she says,

  talking to herself.

  I’m lucky and find shorts

  almost the second we walk in.

  A pocket is missing,

  but what do you expect

  for twelve and a half pennies?

  Momma and I

  get in line behind

  a man whose arms

  are filled to overflowing

  with clothing.

  When he reaches the counter

  he pulls out his wallet,

  thick with money.

  Miss Freeman sees us behind

  him.

  Ms. Chapman,

  she says with a nod.

  Hope.

  I nod back.

  Then,

  How you doin’, mister?

  Terrific,

  he says,

  and smiles a full-toothed grin.

  I’m sure he

  bleaches his teeth

  they are so white.

  Or maybe he’s a dentist.

  But

  what would a dentist

  be doing in here with a

  big ol’ stack of used clothes?

  Let’s count this up,

  Miss Freeman says,

  gathering things by twos.

  Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, a dollar.

  Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, two dollars,

  she says.

  Momma eyes the man.

  I know why, straight up.

  All that money.

  Miss Freeman keeps counting.

  Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, four dollars.

  Twenty-five, fifty, . . . .

  Soon she’s up to eight dollars.

  Momma leans close to the man.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16