“Moody goes up and down like a light switch,” she says. “But I could always count on you to see ten moves ahead, Sis. I know you can see how dangerous this is.”
My heart is beating faster, but I don’t let her see. I meet her gaze, unflinching. Just this once, Iris is wrong. With Edison, Ican’tsee ten moves ahead. I have no idea what he’s done to me or why I can’t let go of him. As much as Iris’s bluntness has wounded me, I know that she’s right. My sisters are all that I have, and they’ve sacrificed everythingfor me. They’ve killed their lovers so that we can always remain together, three identical ropes in a braid. If they found themselves in my predicament, they would do what needed to be done.
When we were children, Iris used to tell me that she could read my thoughts even when we were miles apart. I tested it by thinking about bubble gum, a new bike, how badly I wanted a pit bull that was loyal only to me. I could never be certain, but in this moment, I am.
She sees past every silly wish I’ve ever made, right through the heart of me, to the thing I want and that I would never dare to say.
—
AFTER A WEEK OFdelaying the inevitable, I find myself staring up at the ceiling. It’s early, and my sisters are still asleep. Although we aged out of the system nearly a decade ago, there’s some part of Moody that’s never forgotten how scared she is of being alone; she sleeps with an arm coiled around mine, her forehead pressed against my shoulder, the condensation from her warm, shallow breaths dampening my skin.
Maybe I don’t have to tell them about the baby. That’s what I’m thinking as the sky begins to lighten outside. I can make the drive to Planned Parenthood and be back before lunch, tell them I stopped by Edison’s place and reeled him into bed so he’d have a reason to think of me at work all day.
I look at the crown of Moody’s rumpled hair. Beside her, Iris sleeps with her back to us, so still and silent it’s almost like she’s dead. If childhood in foster care taught me to be observant and Moody to be assertive, it taught Iris to be invisible. You don’t know she’s nearby unless she wants you to, and you don’t know she’s dangerous until she’s already cutting off your air.
My hand slips under the hem of my shirt and presses against mystomach. All I feel is the slope of my belly button. My baby is stealthy and clever; I haven’t felt my body change, not even nausea, but I know it’s in there. If I let the time pass, it will grow fingers and eyelashes and a beating heart. Wait a little longer, and it will grow desires and dreams. Maybe these things have already been decided. Maybe it is already going to be good at math, or hate the metallic tang of citrus fruits the way that I do. Maybe those vocal cords will form and already be able to carry a tune.
But with a serial killer for a mother, what kind of life would it have? Nothing good.
It has to be this way.
Moody shifts in her sleep, and I kiss the top of her head. There’s no room for me to build a new family; the three of us have fought so hard for the family we already have.
I slip out of bed, silent like Iris. I don’t bother changing out of the tank top and cotton shorts I fell asleep in as I pace for the car; if I linger, I won’t go through with it.
“This isn’t your baby, Sissy,” I tell the reflection of my tired eyes in the rearview mirror as I start the ignition. “It’s Jade’s, and Jade isn’t real.”
The radio is off, and all I hear is the thrum of the concrete beneath the tires and my own ragged breathing. It gets louder as I approach the on-ramp for the highway, until my chest is so tight I can’t breathe and my vision starts to tunnel.
At the last second, I swerve off the on-ramp and back onto the road. I curse at myself, and anger and frustration fill me, but I can breathe again. I can see how clear the line where the desert meets the sky is.
It’s only after I turn onto Edison’s street that I realize I’ve been heading here. Early riser that he is, he’ll be awake by now. We would be a family of early risers. The baby would get me up at dawn, and I’dsit nursing it at the kitchen table, my boob hanging out of my shirt while Edison poured the coffee. I’d hum, and the baby would gurgle and sigh as it swallowed my milk, and Edison would watch us with love in his eyes.
Stop it.
The driveway is empty when I pull up to his house, but the front door is open. Sadie peers out through the screen door. Her face changes when she sees me. Is that a smile?
“Hi,” she chirps as I step out into the waxing morning heat. “Looking for Edison? He had to run an errand. He’ll be back in an hour.”
Most stores won’t be open until eight thirty. He must have found an AA meeting, but he hasn’t told Sadie about his one-night relapse. He doesn’t want to worry her.
I almost don’t recognize this Sadie; she’s upbeat, a far cry from the shy and withdrawn girl she was just a few days ago. “The power’s been out at my house since last night, so my dad said I could come here to use the Wi-Fi. I have an assignment due tomorrow,” she says. “Are you staying until he gets back?”
No, I’m not staying. I need to get back into my car. Crank the AC, slam down on the gas pedal. I should be halfway to Planned Parenthood by now.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
“Good.” She’s already turning back into the house. “I have a surprise for you.”
I’m already surprised enough by her enthusiasm. Is this how quickly trust is formed? Weeks ago, she was cautious, even contemptuous, and now she greets me like we’re friends. I had anticipated Sadie to be a long-term project. I didn’t need her to like me—only to trust me. That way, when Edison is dead, she’ll be my ally.
I’m hit by the cool air inside Edison’s house. The smell of him everywhere.
Sadie has taken over the coffee table. Her iPad, phone, and books are scattered there. Her violin case is resting against the couch. The portrait of an overachieving only child. She stoops to retrieve her violin, and I’ve never seen her eyes so bright.
She wields the bow and doesn’t make a production of using the rosin or testing the strings. She dives immediately into a song, like the song has been waiting for her; like it’s an old friend.
I recognize the opening chords to Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters” immediately. It’s Moody’s favorite. She loves how long and slow it is, how James Hetfield rasps some words and cries out others in what Moody calls a fit of desperation. I have heard this song a hundred times throbbing softly from Moody’s headphones as she rested her head against my shoulder on long bus rides, or slept wedged beside me in our group homes. When I hear it, all I think about is her. How glazed her eyes get when it comes on on a store radio and takes her by surprise. How I can see the thoughts filling up her mind, and how I’ve always wondered what she sees or why it means so much to her.
