Chapter 2
Emma's point of view
Watching the waves crash over the beach, again and again, makes me think how long people have been around. Millions and millions of years ago, a cave-girl could've been sitting exactly where I am sitting now watching the same water crash over the same sand. It's so repetitive that it would almost be irritating, but instead, it's reassuring. It reminds me that there was life before, and there will be life afterward.
Watching my sister being lowered onto her hospital bed gives me a shaky feeling of familiarity. It feels as though we have always been here, and when we aren't here, we wait for something that can send us barrelling back. The hospital rooms all look the same, all painted that sickly white color with hard orange chairs. I don't know who decided that orange was a happy color, but now it fills my mouth with a sour taste.
All my life, I have been the girl with the sick sister. the sister of The Girl with Cancer. People that I don't know ask me how I'm doing when I pass them in the shops, bank and shop assistants give me extra lollipops, old men ruffle my hair and exclaim at how big I'm getting. No one is ever outrightly mean to me.
The older sister is supposed to help you climb the trees, look out for monsters under the bed, and slip your snacks when you're grounded.
Instead, I'm to one who holds the emesis basin when my older sister is too sick to hold it herself or have to change her soiled bedding when she has yet another accident at three in the morning, it's usually me who has to run out for her bizarre chemo cravings whenever they strike or push her wheelchair because she can't push herself along anymore.
I'm not like other fourteen-year-olds, I never have been. I didn't grow up normally, I think we were all too afraid of what the future might bring for us to plan. We never had exotic foreign holidays, we never went to high school dances, I never get asked back for sleepovers… I realize now that it isn't just about me. Perhaps it was never just about me and her. Just maybe, it was about Us.
Our parents are the same though; they never remember to buy tickets for our shows, or tournaments, or awards. My mother hasn't had a social life for eight years, right from the day we found out that my sister was sick, my mother and my sister became this kind of joint being. We. Us. Ours. Fighting against the invisible enemy. It. My mom cooks only organic, everything steamed, natural, and germ-free. Half the time, Lilly doesn't even eat it, she prefers to feed herself through her G-Tube in her stomach. She cleans the table with hospital-grade sanitizer and washes the dishes in water so hot it makes her hands look raw. She never complains though.
Funnily enough, neither does Lilly.
It doesn't get any easier, it just gets worse and worse.
but I think the worst thing is that I think it might be my fault.
The pawnshop has that air of time-long-gone too. It smells musty and old, and the owner is hardly any better; a small man with little hair and the few strands that remain are greying and thinning. He cocks an eye at me, silently asking what I want, and I take out the box from my rucksack.
"Eighteen-carat gold. Barely been worn" I pitch to him but I'm a liar. Until this morning I had never taken it off in almost ten years. Lying within the box is a gold signet ring that my father bought for me when I was four and was about to give up my bone marrow. It only started to fit me when I was eleven, but I used to wear it on a chain around my neck. My dad said that I was giving something very valuable to my sister and he thought I deserve something valuable too. He picked it out especially for me and on the inside of the band, he engraved a promise
"until the last petal falls"
The owner offers me a hundred bucks. I decline.
"It's worth five times that!" I say indignantly
"I'm not the one who needs money sweetheart, say two hundred?" he offers, and I agree.
I almost don't want to hand it over but resigned to sealing the deal, I do. My face must've shown that I was hurt because the old man gave a smile
"Pretend you've lost it and they won't ask questions"
They wouldn't notice anyway I think sadly to myself as I slope away, money safely tucked into my wallet.
David's point of view
Seeing my fourteen-year-old stomp upstairs to her bedroom makes me wonder how long she has felt this way. How long ago did she stop wishing for her sister to get well? When did we start relying on her more and more? Why didn't we see that somewhere inside her almost grown-up body is the tiny little four-year-old who was scared of being alone?
Emma was our second daughter and though I had hoped for a son, I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. She has my eyes, my bright blue eyes. She has my thick curly hair but hers is a lighter shade of blonde than mine. Lilly looks like Mary, and Emma looks like me. Our perfect little family.
Sitting at the dinner table tonight was the epitome of awkwardness. Mary served us our meat and vegetables with gusto but now she sits quietly, not eating but reminding us to eat. Lilly droops a little, her head covered by a bandana and a thick cardigan pulled tight around her skinny shoulders. She nibbles half-heartedly at a carrot and asks about my day.
"Did you go out on patrol today daddy?" she asks, fork ready to spear another carrot
"Not today Princess, tomorrow maybe," I answer, cutting through my slice of chicken
"What did you do instead then?" she persists, I think hearing about how I spent my day makes her feel less isolated
"paperwork mostly, Robin brought in some cake from Roland's party last Sunday. I spoke to the station manager about doing more shifts if I need to" I say, waiting for Emma to protest at my further absence from our home.
She stays silent, pushing her food around on her plate, her eyes permanently on the potato that she keeps pushing around.
"Emma, can you eat something instead of pushing it around?" Mary asks politely but there's an edge to her voice.
"not hungry," Emma says hoarsely, keeping her eyes on her plate. She thinks I haven't seen that she's been crying.
"Then sit quietly. Or better, leave the table and let us eat" Mary sighs and goes to clear Emma's plate, but I stop her.
"she might want it later. Put it in the microwave and chuck it tomorrow. Maybe she just doesn't want to eat in front of us." I reason, playing devil's advocate
"We can't just ignore this David, why is she behaving like this?" Mary wonders aloud as Emma slopes past me, furtively knuckling at her watery blue eyes.
"Can we please stop talking about me as if I'm not here?" Emma shouts, her anger bursting out suddenly
"Emma, please don't raise your voice at us. If you're upset, we can sit down and talk about whatever it is that is upsetting you" I start but she leaves before I can continue, leaving me to talk to an empty room.
"Lilly? Are you okay? You aren't eating very much" Mary fusses around our eldest daughter like the proverbial mother hen.
When I first cradled Lilly when she was born, I pictured her at her wedding. When she was diagnosed with Leukaemia, I pictured her getting her graduating from college. When she relapsed, I pictured her making it to her tenth birthday party.
I learned long ago not to make these kinds of expectations because if I don't, she somehow manages to beat them all.
Emma was always my daughter, and when I say that I mean that was my mini-me. She was tough, never one for girly dresses or having her curly hair done, never played with barbies or dollies, she was a tomboy almost from the minute she could voice her opinions.
Lilly and I aren't as close as Emma and I are. I think Emma saw me as her right-hand man, the one who would defend her to her mother and stand up for her.
I don't think she sees me that way anymore. I'm the one who is asking her to donate her kidney to her sister, even though she doesn't want to.
My job as a police officer isn't exactly what I wanted to do, I always used to say that I wanted to be a doctor and save people's lives. My job might not save as many lives as that, but it is rewarding. I work in sporadic shift patterns. Four days on, two days off, two on, then four off. I usually spend my time at the station anyway, it's where all my best friends are.
There's Chief, my boss who loves to ask about my three beautiful children, Robin, who has his children and is married to Zelena, Benny, who is such a confirmed bachelor that my kids call him Uncle Benny, and then there is Graham. Graham is very like me, shy, quiet, and sometimes away in his world.
"Hey Swan, how's the wife and kids?" Chief calls as I sit at the table, ready to eat a second dinner
"Mary's doing okay, Emma's been a little weird recently, Lilly's… well… she's no worse. And Neal, he's excelling at the moment, suddenly got into baseball last week." I answer as Robin collapses into the seat next to me.
"Hard night Hood?" I joke, I've always called him Hood, as in Robin Hood
"The baby won't settle. Zelena is having to do everything while holding her and Roland doesn't make it easier" he groaned, rubbing his temples
"Does Zelena still breastfeed?" I ask, noting the passage of time by the picture of the children on his phone screen
"Yeah, Robyn is allergic to the formula"
"She should try expressing her foremilk, and then giving Robyn the hindmilk. Worked for us when Emma was a baby" I advise, heaping some salad onto my plate
"worth a shot," he says as he stifles a yawn and pulls some salad onto his plate.
Roland is five, and Robyn is eight months old. I hardly remember Emma at five, except that was when she donated marrow to save her sister's life… the first time she saved her sister's life.