“Eustace?!” she called through the thick wood. “You all right?”
There was still no reply. Eustace could be obstinate, but they were just getting their relationship back on track. Cordelia worried at a pick in her sweater, wondering what her sister was thinking after her full confession. “Eustace, please,” she tried again, banging on the door. “Don’t be angry with me.”
Cordelia was beginning to feel an increasing sense of concern. What if whatever had killed those bats had gotten to her sister? Or worse? Hadn’t Mr. Togers said the house had a will of its own? They were nonsensical thoughts, but she couldn’t put them aside. She placed an ear to the door. Beating on it a third time, she called, “Please just say something so I know you’re okay!”
She gripped the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. Cordelia rattled it to no avail. It was jammed fast, the door locked from the inside. Frantic, she beat against the wood with the flat of her hand, calling her sister’s name, begging her to open up.
Cordelia wrapped both hands around the knob, pushing and pulling, shaking the door in its hinges. Panic surged through her, a shot of dazzling, electric energy that gathered in her chest, pressing against her heart and ribs, demanding action. But her head felt like it was shrinking, squeezing her brain, causing her to squint her eyes and reel with dizziness.
Her body began to tremble as she continued to jostle the knob. Beneath her, the house rumbled in kind. The window at the end of the hall shook against its frame as if something were beating to get in. Cordelia glanced at it in fear, but all she could think about was getting to her sister. A swell of power shot from her feet to her throat as the window flew open, practically knocking her out of her shoes. Cordelia opened her mouth to scream, and a blast pushed through her, an explosive wind that blew the door open, splintering the wood of the frame and flinging one of the pins from the hinge, causing it to slam against the wall and hang at an odd angle.
Eustace shrieked, grasping a nearby towel to clutch to her chest, barely missing the swing of the door as it burst inward.
But not before Cordelia saw—the sharp, bony shoulders, sunken chest, and countable ribs, the angry scar cutting across her left breast, leaving it tucked and misshapen where a large portion had been cut away, and the horrified look on her sister’s face.
“Y-y-you weren’t answering,” Cordelia tried to explain, one hand on her head, where the excruciating pressure of a moment ago was already dissipating. Her body felt strangely empty, like a balloon that’s been stuck with a pin. But something remained, something delicious, a ripple of power Cordelia could feel sparking along her insides. It made her weak in the knees, the way she felt after a really good orgasm, wrung out and on fire all at once.
“You could try knocking first,” Eustace snapped, anger contorting her face. She looked at the lopsided door, the shards of wood littering the floor. “What the fuck did you do?”
“What do you mean? I was calling your name over and over. I practically beat the door down before I got it open,” Cordelia tried to tell her. She still wasn’t clear onhowshe’d gotten it open, but she would deal with that later. “I kept shaking the handle, trying to get in. You didn’t hear me?”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Eustace eyed Cordelia skeptically. “The water’s not even running. How would I not hear all that?” She gave the door a little push, and it creaked pathetically on its remaining hinge. “Cordy… what happened exactly?” Then she really looked at her sister, saw the hand pressed to her temple. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Cordelia shook her head. “It’s nothing. Are you going to tell me what I just witnessed?”
Eustace’s face fell. “I’ve been trying.”
“Well, try harder,” Cordelia insisted. “Because it appears you had surgery, and the only reason I can think of for breast surgery is c-c-c…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the wordcancer.
“I wanted to tell you,” Eustace said, wrapping the towel around herself. “It just never seemed like the right time.”
“I’d say now feels pretty right,” Cordelia responded.
Her sister frowned. “I know it was wrong to keep it from you. But we weren’t really speaking, and I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”
“I would call cancer necessary, Eustace,” Cordelia argued. “When were you diagnosed?”
“In June,” she told her.
“You’ve been living with cancer for eleven months and didn’t even bother to call?” Cordelia knew she was sounding indignant, but she couldn’t help it. They’d been at odds, but she still thought of them as close enough to face a potentially fatal disease together. She felt guilt-stricken that her sister had faced this crisis all alone.
“The surgery was in July,” Eustace told her. “Followed by a year of chemo. I have two injections left.”
“So, I wasn’t wrong. You have lost weight. That’s due to the chemo?” Cordelia asked.
Eustace nodded. “It makes me nauseous, kills my appetite. It could be much worse, really. I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“I’d hate to see your version ofunlucky,” Cordelia muttered.
Eustace sighed and pushed past her sister, stepping over the splintery mess and heading toward the bedroom. Cordelia followed on wobbly knees, lowering herself into the nearest chair for support while her sister changed.
“I can’t believe you went through this all alone,” she reiterated, her eyes beginning to fill with unexpected tears. “What if I’d lost you?”
“You see? This is precisely why I didn’t call. And you didn’t tell me about John,” she chided.
“That’s entirely different,” Cordelia bellowed.
Eustace scowled. “I hate when you act like this.”
