In time it’s always some animal or beast I cannot name. The medicine staves it off, but only for a little while. The doctors ask me to check if I notice any changes in her behavior, but truthfully her personality is the one constant. She’s still Miri. We fight the same, we speak the same, she still hates whatever I cook and orders Pad Thai the moment I let her choose dinner. So long as she gets her treatment, she always returns to her normal form.
I try to explain this to Ari, the girl I’m seeing. I leave out the more personal details; all she knows is that my sister is sick and that I’m the only one who can take care of her.
“What about your parents?”
“My dad left a bit before she got sick and my mom didn’t really handle it all that well. It became easier if I just took over,” I say. Dad left the moment Miri turned eighteen, like he had been biding his time up until that point. From what I see on Facebook, he’s got a motorcycle and is constantly posting vague messages. Some are about ‘true courage’ or ‘real manhood.’ Others are about what makes a woman sexy. I always hit ‘like’ on the sexy ones.
It wasn’t too long after he left that Miri started growing fangs and antlers and extra eyes. In response, Mom leaned into the worst version of herself. My mother cannot accept coincidence, or randomness, or unwarranted tragedy. No one makes mistakes; everything is deliberate. There is a grand scheme behind every single occurrence. It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out that your daughter transforming into a monster would lead you to construct some big conspiracy. Only difference is that this time, it was all spiritual. She swapped religions and beliefs like accessories. Oh, it’s raining today? Take a bit of Taoism. Trying to get over heartbreak? Nothing a little meditation won’t fix. Your daughter is turning into an abomination? Well good news is the preacher at the mega-church across town says that you can perform your own exorcisms. Mom had been a Christian before, and gone through cycles of piety, but this was something else. Miri became this blight that she needed to purge.
Things came to a head when I came home from work and found my mother trying to saw off Miri’s antlers, insisting that the medicine the doctor gave us was ‘poison’ and that she needed to save her baby. I threw her to the ground so swiftly, I was dumbstruck by my own strength. After that, we agreed that Mom was better off if she went to live with her brother and his family for a while. I would take care of the house and Miri. To this day, the only thing Miri ever has to say about that day is “where did she get the saw from?”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Ari says. “That’s really good of you, taking care of her. I mean, not trying to overstep, I mean that–”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re fine, you don’t have to tiptoe.” Ari and I are now at that awkward part of dating where the questions become personal. She wants to know me. I want to forget everything about me. Green and black tattoos scatter over Ari’s arms. Leaves and birds and tally marks only make her skin more perfect. I fixate on her hands while she talks about her dog. The dim restaurant light glints on the many silver rings. I’ve always had a thing for girls with rings. Ari laughs and I do my best to mirror her, my gaze not leaving her lips.
We hook up in her car later that night. It’s a bit adolescent; we’re parked right outside my house, but I can’t bring her inside. Miri is definitely still awake, and the last time I brought a girl over she had a flare up. Ari kept repeating that we could go over to hers, but I knew that if I went with her I’d end up staying the night, and I can’t be away for long. Miri can’t give herself the medicine. She says that it hurts too bad. So messing around in the backseat it is. I start to inch my way down her torso when she stops me and insists on changing positions. For a moment it feels nice, to have someone take over my body. Feel someone else’s mouth, have someone else’s attention. I try to lose myself in it, but I keep seeing Miri’s needles in my mind.
Later, I barely wave at Ari as I enter the house. She kissed me goodbye like she was itching to get away. Can’t really blame her. I used to be so much better at dating. I paid for meals, I made them laugh. If we seemed too different from one another, I would terraform a new common ground for us. Become someone else for a while. I managed to make myself seem interesting enough to talk to, but boring enough that she could imagine me slotting into her life. I never really see an end goal with these not-quite-relationships. Even with all my efforts, I’ve never gotten far enough to see them become anything more than a boring anecdote.
“Hey, how was your night?” Miri calls out from her spot on the couch. It’s odd, to be adults in your childhood home. Odder still to be living there without our parents. Certain areas and items are now off limits to us. Mom’s rocking chair, Dad’s DVDs. Their bedroom has been sealed off.
“Oh. Fine.” I hurry past her to head to the bathroom. I wash up quickly before returning to the living room. “All right, I’ll get your dose ready. Did you eat?”
“Microwaved some ramen,” she says without looking up. “Do you think you’ll see her again?” I never came out to my parents. I hoped I’d never have to, that my gayness would simply make itself known over time and it could just be an uncomfortable truth. Miri is the only person I sat down and told. I can still feel that tension as I tried to repeat the lines I rehearsed in my head, the tiny pauses and phrases I’d picked up from watching teen dramas growing up. Miri just said that it was cool, then asked if I was taking the car that night. In her own strange way, she made speaking it aloud easy. Her apathy meant the world to me.
“Who knows, I might have botched it at the end.” I tear open the pack of new needles. 30-gauge. Supposedly these are as small as they come. I say a quiet prayer to no one that they hurt her less. As the syringe fills with the clear liquid antidote, I try to imagine how I would create the medicine myself. And try not to think about the fact that, for all I know, I could be filling my sister with poison or sugar water. Technically speaking, there is no name for what Miri has. The medicine is a kind of panacea for anomalies. It just so happens to treat the symptoms.
“Okay. Readyyy?” I stretch my voice for comedic effect. Miri doesn’t so much as look up from the television. I see the faint outlines are already starting to form under the skin of her cheeks. Pale gray scales are growing in small patches all along her body. Miri holds out her left forearm absentmindedly. I can locate her veins without even looking now.
Miri winces for a moment as the needle sinks in. She grits her teeth and does her best to stifle a scream as her skin begins to return to normal. I’d asked her once what it was like. She only shook her head and said it was like burning, but as though the burns were coming from inside her nerves. I hate watching her struggle like this. But when it’s over, it’s done. Her skin is back to normal, her voice a bit more even. I grab my notebook and log her dose. I have her for another day.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Miri says. “Come on, tell me something good. Nothing interesting happened?”
I hold back a sigh. It isn’t much to humor her. Miri didn’t get the chance to date much before her condition developed. Last summer, we tried to sit at a bar for a couple of hours. One guy seemed interested, all smiles and light teasing. She was laughing so hard she didn’t notice her voice beginning to morph. I had to pull her out before things went too far. I can’t tell if she wants to live vicariously through me, or if she’s worried about having to share me, or if she’s just curious. Whatever the case, I don’t want to torment her with too many details.
“She’s pretty. She’s so sincere I thought she was fake at first.”
“How you mean?” Miri is rubbing a stubborn patch of gray scales on her knee that is fading a tad slower than the rest.
“Like, I pointed to these two old ladies that were seated in the same place. And I jokingly said, ‘Hey that’s us in fifty years.’ She laughed, and then said, ‘I hope so. I want to grow old with someone, not just be old with them.’ And like, anyone else I would have made fun of them. You know, it’s corny. But she was so sincere I just smiled and continued talking about whatever we were talking about.”
“Awww that’s really cute!” A big smile overtakes my sister’s face. It startles me; her skin seems to strain against the expression. I can’t tell if her mouth is growing wider, or if her head is growing narrower. “You should text her. Just say you had a good time.”
“Maybe later. Did you shower yet?”
“Oh, right. Let me go first.”
I don’t really like resting or bathing until I know that Miri is in bed. Because then, I can relax into it, have the hot water drill into my skull and let my mind go blank.
I sprawl out on the floor as I listen to the shower run. I’ve figured it out. Life is rhythms. Patterns of motions and rumblings that started before and will finish long after me. And this is my rhythm now. Miri is my rhythm. I try to ignore the phantom touches lingering on my body from Ari. I was stupid to think that I could start seriously seeing someone. Ari would get tired of me, she would resent me for never inviting her into the house. She would want to go away for a weekend, spend some time alone, and I would have to say no, for my sister. She would want to move in, and I can’t do that, not without Miri. Even if she were some kind of saint, I know myself. I wouldn’t want to have long talks about feelings and futures. I wouldn’t want to worry about if we should marry, if we can marry. My life is narrow and small because it has to be. So, it’s better if she doesn’t call again.
The water faucet stops. Miri normally takes much longer than I do in the shower. When we were teenagers, she was so fastidious about her hair and skin care routines. It seemed there were special creams and exfoliants for every inch of her body. Since her changing, she stopped ordering the products. For one, we really can’t afford it. Mom handles most of the mortgage, but with just my salary supporting us we’ve had to cut back on quite a bit. Last Christmas, I splurged and got her a fancy set of lotions and perfume. Those bottles all sit there still. I felt useless watching her open it. Why work so hard on a body that is constantly morphing? Where would she wear the perfume if she never goes out? What I thought might bring her back to a simpler mindset really just reminded her of what she couldn’t have. Nowadays, Miri’s showers are very, very long. Something about the hot water. Once, I saw her take boiling water from the kettle and begin to pour it onto her hand. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out. Her expression was so calm, as though this act was routine. I just stood there, watching for a moment. When the initial shock subsided, I asked her what the hell was she doing. She just shrugged and said she was aiming for the sink drain. Maybe it makes the scales go away. Maybe the sensation distracts her from the intense burning the medicine causes.
I start to doze off when I realize that Miri still hasn’t left the bathroom. “Miri?” No answer. “Miri!” My nerves strain as I shoot up off the floor and bound towards the bathroom. “Miri!”
Miri is draped in an old bathrobe I stole from a Holiday Inn. Her body sways slightly, as though there are tiny strings gently pulling her from the left, then the right, then left again. Her skin is a patchwork of gray scales and pink flesh. This shouldn’t be happening. Not so soon after her dose. I have to force my panic to retreat back into my throat.
“Okay. We’re going to get you to a hospital.” I manage to keep my voice still. Maybe even a little too still. Miri does not look at me. She is glued to her reflection. Her pupils are totally unfocused; my sister is somewhere far off in the retreats of her mind. The whites of her eyes are a putrid yellow now. Looking at her is painful. I grab her arm and guide her to her bedroom, telling her to get dressed while I get ready to drive us to the hospital.
She nods slowly. For a moment I’m worried she can’t speak, when she finally whispers, “Okay.”
By some miracle my body drives us to the hospital and gets us checked into the ER. We plant ourselves in the only two remaining seats, thankfully next to each other. Miri doesn’t talk. I don’t know what to say to make this easier. But I have to try.
“Do you remember that time in college when I had to get my stomach pumped and you had to cover for me to Mom?”
At first, she says nothing. I scratch my legs methodically. I can’t tell if I’m trying to distract her or myself. Her voice cracks a bit as she finally says, “I forgot what I told her. I think I said you passed out in class.”
“She probably would have found out if she bothered to check. We were on her insurance then, right?”
“Maybe. Maybe it just said ER visit though. I remember being so angry at you.”
“Because you had to drive over?”
“Because I thought you were dying.” She laughs a little and I can feel my breathing slow. “I guess I didn’t realize how common it was. But sheesh, you were the older sister.”
“I was a mess,” I agree. “That was right after Maddie broke up with me.”
“Oh god don’t remind me. I drove three hours to see you and all you would talk about is what a bitch she was. Remember even the nurse was tired of your shit?”
We start laughing, trading stories of our worst moments. It shouldn’t be fun, but it is. When we got locked in a confused neighbor’s basement, when Miri got caught shoplifting, when I broke my ankle at my own graduation. We place this moment in the tapestry of all the bad moments we lived through together. Now will soon be then.
“What does it feel like?” I say without thinking. Normally I try to avoid addressing it directly. I never want her to feel like she is her sickness. Surprisingly, she doesn’t seem sad or annoyed by the question.
“You know, if I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t know it was happening. Then, when I focus on it, I feel it. Like a slight pressure. It’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt. I don’t know. I think I’m so used to the feeling that I can’t even describe what it’s like. It’s background noise now.” Her voice sounds a bit scratchy, like she’s been out all night.
“I’m so tired of this,” she says, and her static-ridden voice grows quiet. “I am tired of only seeing the four walls of our house and the hospitals. I’m tired of the mental math I have to do every day with my doses. I’m tired of the flare ups that throw even the most basic things out of my control. I’m tired of not being able to leave the house for more than a couple of hours. I’m tired of people asking me questions about it and then getting disappointed by my answers.”
I sit there and nod. It’s not that I can’t think of what to say, it’s that there isn’t anything that can be said. About two years ago, Miri had a bad flare up and tried to run away. She took my wallet and managed to rack up my credit before I could freeze my cards. I remember coming home to a house turned inside out. It didn’t take long to find her. She’d checked in to a nearby Best Western for the night. The concierge immediately noted that this guest had grown scales and a tail. She’s a bit difficult to miss. We didn’t even fight when I found her. I just took her home, gave her her medicine, and went to bed. We’ve had similar incidents from time to time, but they always end the same. Sometimes my memories of the different events blend and blur together. Was it the time that she tried to run off into the park, or was it the time that she locked herself in the room and refused to take her medicine? Or was that the same day as the hotel incident? My reactions are always the same. That same grace I have to extend, even though I don’t want to.
“Mom sent me another bat-shit article today,” Miri says. She’s scrolling through her phone.
“Don’t show me,” I say. “What was the gist?”
“Something about vaccinations. I guess that’s the cause now?” The infuriating thing about our mother’s descent into madness is that I understand it. We know the doctors are playing fast and loose with Miri. We know that our insurance is shit. But when she tried force feeding Miri copious servings of watermelon and seaweed, when she started insisting that the cure existed and was being ‘hidden,’ that’s when we knew we’d lost her. A mother’s love is treated like it’s a powerful, otherworldly force, as mysterious and unwavering as the laws of the universe. Well, I saw how much it was worth. When we needed her the most, she became another problem.
“Maybe this is stress related? You should block her, anyway.”
“I can’t do that. She’s our mom.”
Opposite from where I’m seated is a table of brochures mostly related to medical emergencies. What to do if your loved one has a stroke, is choking, having a seizure, etc. Every front page displays a person smiling. Every model is so enthusiastic about their congenital heart issues, their asthma, their STIs. Some of them are seated next to a doctor or presumed caregiver. Not one of them is looking at the camera. They are all either facing another person in the frame, or some distant point that the viewer has no access to. Someone must have planned these. There was an agreement that this was the friendliest way to make a brochure about something so frightening. A thousand decisions backed by research and prior knowledge, and now I’m seated across from twelve uncanny smiles.
“Do you remember when she had that grapefruit craze?” My sister laughs so hard the couple next to us flinches. “She nearly died, right? Dad didn’t make a scene but she was in the hospital.” I was only eight then. Miri was five. I’m surprised she even remembers. “I don’t think I ever looked at a grapefruit the same way again. How many must she have eaten?”
“Too many, clearly,” I say. I check my phone. Three messages from Ari. I already know what they say. My thumb presses the notes app icon. The past few years, I’ve been writing messages to Mom and Dad. I know that I’ll never send them. They vary a bit; some are my ‘coming out’ texts, some are updates on Miri, almost all of them morph into long, incoherent rants about how it would be nice to have parents again. The last note I’d written was confronting Mom for not calling Miri on her birthday.
“Did that girl text you?” It’s getting increasingly difficult to tell the whites of her eyes from the irises. They are now almost a uniform yellow. Her pupils have begun to stretch into two tall ovals. It’s like talking to a ticking clock. Why is it taking so long to be seen?
“What’s it to ya?” I furrow my brow dramatically at her. I need our dynamic to stay the same. I need her to stay the same.
“Are you going to respond?”
“I will.”
“Why do you act like you gotta hide that stuff?” Miri sits up. Sharp, blade-like appendages shoot out of her forearms. I can’t tell if they are closer to scales, fins, or feathers. “You’re acting like I would do something if I found out you had a girlfriend.”
I only think that because it’s true. It’s not that she would intentionally do anything; she wouldn’t run away or argue with me, I know that much. But if I pull away, her condition will get worse. I’ve seen what happens when she’s left alone for too long, when her emotions overtake her.
“We’re not in a relationship. We’re just dating. I don’t really think about her, most of the time.”
“You think that you can’t be open about it because you think I’ll never have that.”
“No,” I say. “This has been a long night, can we just focus on getting you seen by a doctor?”
She throws her head back, nearly knocking skulls with the person sitting behind her. I hate when she gets like this. Anything and everything could be used as an excuse to fight. That’s something we both inherited. From our parents, really. Anger is a protective emotion. Anger will hold you in place, it will drive you. You don’t give up when you’re angry, you only give up when the anger shifts to despair. So find the person you know you can fight. Pick something meaningless, pick any excuse to be angry.
“Miriam?” The young man walks in with a totally blank stare. It isn’t until Miri and I stand up that I see his expression change. It is hard to disconnect when you see a condition like Miri’s, I guess. I’m still working on becoming a better advocate. I’ve spent hours reading from textbooks and forums and various social media posts that give advice for caretakers.
The patient-care representative leaves us to wait for the triage nurse. We have no idea if Miri’s condition is life threatening. We only know what we know. And that is the fact that the more she transforms, the harder it is to undo the transformations. ‘Where do you think they go?’ Miri once asked me. ‘Where does what go?’ I asked. ‘My claws,’ she said. ‘What does the medicine do to my claws?’ I only shrugged and insisted that the claws weren’t there anymore. That they turned back to regular fingernails. She didn’t seem to believe me.
“Okay, Miriam I am going to ask you a few quick questions, and then Dr. Klein will come in when he’s ready. Tell me what’s going on?” The triage nurse’s eyes dart up and around Miri’s body.
“I uh, have this condition. I guess it’s obvious now.” Miri pauses to cough out the gravel in her voice. When she begins to speak again, the static only grows stronger. “Normally I take this medication my doctor prescribes, but it isn’t working all of a sudden.”
“What condition though? What is it called?”
“They didn’t really give it a name. They put it down in my chart as some word I can’t remember. Not anomaly. Some other word.”
“Okay but are you in pain? What’s your pain level?”
“Uh, three?” The nurse’s face shifts at my sister’s uncertainty.
“Three? Really? You’re here for a three?”
“Her medication stopped working.” My voice is shakier than I’d like it to be. “And the condition worsens very quickly. When it goes on untreated she ends up in so much pain she can’t speak.”
“Do you log your doses?”
“They’re right here,” I say, handing her the small yellow notebook.
“All right, hold onto that for Dr. Klein. And you’re saying the medication has stopped working. All right. We’re just going to take some blood samples, do a quick examination, and then Dr. Klein will be in here shortly.”
We all offer curt nods when the nurse finally leaves the room.
“Fuck her,” I say.
“That’s helpful,” Miri says, her mouth betraying the second set of teeth that is forming at the base of her gums. What I cannot fathom about her transformation is how purposeless it seems to be. The scales don’t guard her skin, the antlers weigh down her neck. Miri’s new form is either useless or designed for something I cannot understand. And the nurse can’t see that? How often does she see conditions like Miri’s? I swallow my words, hoping that my stomach lining is acidic enough to dissolve them. When I tried to explain to Ari what it was like, what my sister is like, she had very little to say. She sat there nodding and agreeing and gently stroking my fingers with her thumb. But she couldn’t hide the fact that she knew nothing about it. How caretaking will make you feel anger and guilt and desperation and mania all in a few minutes. How healthcare workers will speak to you as if you are here of your own volition, and not because you need help. How you learn to hate the person you are sacrificing everything to save. Towards the beginning, I had tried a support group hosted at the library. I never had anything relevant to add, and I never really felt understood. Most of the attendees were far older than me, and knew each other from church. Going there just felt like another responsibility to take on.
The doctor that enters has one of those faces that is simultaneously aged and ageless. I know that he is significantly older than me, but I couldn’t say by how much. He smiles and nods at the two of us.
“All right, what’s going on?” He props himself on the stool by the computer. I hesitate for a moment. Why do they all insist on us stating the obvious? I can feel drops of sweat running down my sides. I wrap myself in the corner and hope it isn’t visible through my shirt.
“She has this condition where her skin morphs and discolors. She takes medication for it. I have it here. I’ve been following our doctor’s instructions on when and how to administer it. We haven’t missed a dose. But it’s happening anyway, and faster than before.”
I hold my breath, hoping I kept my cool this time. The doctor says nothing, examines her skin for about ten seconds before turning around.
“It’s an allergic reaction. Probably to the medication.”
“No, because–”
“Let me finish. There’s been an uptick in allergies lately. Can you take a deep breath in and out for me?”
My sister complies.
“Lungs are clear. What I would do is wait to schedule an appointment with your primary. In the meantime, I would say some over-the-counter medication. Zyrtec is good. NyQuil if you have trouble sleeping. Right now we just want to calm the throat, cause the hives to go down.”
“Hives? She’s growing scales!”
He holds up a hand to me. He smiles, but won’t look me in the eye. I can feel my face grow hot. I must look insane.
“I see that prescription. You said that this usually takes it away, yes? Well, if the medicine isn’t working, then giving her more isn’t going to do it. In our emergency room, we have to focus on life-threatening, immediate care, all right? I have other people waiting for me now. And judging by her test results, there is nothing life-threatening going on here. There is no prescription I can give her. I would just find some antihistamines to manage the symptoms, and contact your doctor.”
We are ushered out so quickly that I think that no, surely I did something wrong. I must have misunderstood. The woman at the front desk tells me the copay is $100. I want to protest, but I can feel my energy draining. I have to treat what little fight I have left in me as a rare resource.
My sister is dead silent as I drive us back to the house.
“I’ll keep an eye on you. We’ll get to the bottom of this. You’ll be okay.”
“I’m so tired,” she says.
“I know you are. I know. But it’s not forever. Nothing is.”
“It’s just until I die. Just let it happen then.”
I don’t let the conversation carry on any further. I won’t feed into whatever it is she’s feeling. There is too much to do.
When we arrive home, I help her change into her pajamas and bring her to her room. I prop myself by her bedside, turn on a ‘soothing sleep music playlist,’ and wait. I begin to stroke her hair, my fingers gently brushing snarls out of her loose waves. I have to stop when clumps of hair and skin begin to stick to my hand.
The change continues throughout the night. It’s funny; I’ve seen her skin morph a million times in the past few years, but I’ve never watched the change occur bit by bit. Prior to today, I would look, give her the medicine, leave, then look again to see her back to normal. Watching her slow, ceaseless metamorphosis brings out this strange anger in me. The same anger I feel when I see a nasty pimple or a piece of dead skin. That urge to scratch and pick and eventually destroy. I could rip it from her, take every scale and claw and horn, until all that’s left is bright, healthy skin. Normal skin.
But it wouldn’t do any good. Her new skin, it isn’t made from the old skin. It seems as though the new flesh rises from within her, a bit like blood seeping out. I lean in to get a better look. Her face, softened and unarmed, looks so much younger now, even as gray mounds of leather take over her body. Sometimes Miri will say that she thinks this form was inside her all along. That it isn’t an invading disease, but her body returning to some other state. Whenever she’d say this, I would simply nod and administer her next dose. But looking at her now, I can’t help but wonder the same.
When we were kids, she would cling to me. Copying every little movement, following me every time I left the house. One day, when I had some friends over, and my sister came in, clutching her Kirsten American Girl Doll, all wide eyes framed above cherub cheeks and checkerboard teeth, I yelled at her to leave. When she refused, forcing my door back open, I grabbed her hair and dragged her out into the hallway, returning to my bedroom and using a chair to block the door. I can still feel my thrumming pulse, my cheeks red from the yelling and from the shame, waiting any minute for her to begin screaming and crying for Mom like she’d done a thousand times before.
Only she didn’t. I heard soft, muffled sobs from behind the door until eventually I could hear her bare feet pad across the hall to her bedroom.
Sometimes I feel like that memory is consuming other bits of me. Portions of my mind and personality slip away to make room for it as it grows more vivid. Guilt has eroded so much of what I used to be. Back then our family was her world. And then adolescence gave her the promise of a new one. Adulthood was supposed to give her the chance to carve out a whole person beyond her family. Maybe even have a family of her own. And now, her universe has condensed. She’s back to being trapped in the house all day, back to her family being her entire social life, back to being solely dependent on her caregiver. If anything, her world is even smaller than it was as a child. I am the only family left. She doesn’t even like to go as far as the backyard anymore. Now more than ever I need to be what I should have been for her from the start.
“Can’t sleep,” a throaty voice calls out to me in the dark. She speaks like a thousand pebbles might fall from her throat.
“What is it?”
“I can feel it all coming together. What it is I’m turning into. How does it look?”
I am searching desperately for any remotely human feature. Her chin still looks about the same, though her jaw is starting to detach and widen to fit the new teeth. Her arms are the same length, but her hands are still growing. Any hint of Miri’s old body is accompanied by the new features. And yet, there is something about this thing in front of me that is so unmistakably Miri. Her voice, her eyes, those are all different now. But her posture, her movements, the way she inhabits this body are all the same. Even if the entire world turned into monsters, I’d know that this one is my little sister.
“What does it feel like? Are you in pain?”
“Honestly, feels kind of good to get this far. I don’t have to worry about getting worse,” she says. A horrible noise erupts from her throat, a chattering sound that reminds me of locusts. I retract from her, only to realize that she is laughing. “It’s not a problem. You were always making a bigger thing of it than it was.”
“You want to be like this?”
“I don’t want to fight it,” she says. The new excess skin around her neck folds into itself while she shrugs. She sits upright, and I witness flesh mold and morph. Two large appendages sprout from her back. Wings. Actual wings. They do not look functional. Nothing about my sister’s changes seem practical in any sense. An evolutionary disaster.
“I’m gonna drive us to a different hospital,” I say. “Fuck it, I’ll find some new specialists. I don’t care if it’s out of network. You come first.”
“I don’t need to.”
Whenever the turning lasts too long she gets like this. I have a scar on my forearm from the first time she ever changed. I had to drag her by her rapidly thinning hair to get her into the car. She screamed and thrashed and dug her nails so deep into me I thought she would tear out my veins. For a while she had a Valium prescription to help with these outbursts. They helped keep her calm enough to give her her medication, but soon our prescription ran out. The pharmacist wouldn’t refill it. Said it would be too addicting. So we adhered to our schedule, not missing a beat, and I think the monotony was a drug in and of itself for a while.
I begin to scream in frustration. She does not budge. I feel my throat begin to wear down as my pleas shift into uncontrollable sobs. My breaths are short and shallow and for a moment I’m terrified I will choke.
“I’m so tired,” I finally say. “You say you’re tired? I’m fucking tired. So fucking tired of doing this.” Hot, acidic tears drench my face, coagulating at the chin before dripping. I can feel the mucus in my nose release. I don’t bother to wipe it away.
“Then don’t do it,” she says. “I think if it’s making us all tired, so let’s just not.” One wing twitches furiously. “I don’t know what will happen, but I know I need a change.” Her voice is quieter now.
I run my nails along my thighs to keep myself from hitting her. She’s doing this to hurt me. All these years. All the fighting with doctors. All the copays. The shit job I took to get the best insurance package I could manage. And somehow, it’s all about me. Like my caring for her was a burden. I take a deep breath. “I don’t want you to stay like this. We’re gonna get you help. This is serious. I’m going to go get changed.” I toss some long baggy sweatpants and a hoodie at her. “Throw these on and we’ll go. I’m just gonna grab some things. I’ll be back.”
Right. I will break everything down into tiny tasks. Get dressed. Get Miri. Drive her over to another hospital. One day this will all be a memory.
I pop back into her room, seeing tangled sheets where my sister should be. My eyes dumbly scan the room. I see the open window. The torn bug screen. I notice the tattered pajamas on the floor.
I race down the stairs, out of the house, calling my sister’s name. I must be very loud, because several lights in the neighborhood turn on. I’m screaming and scanning the entire area. I try to determine which direction she may have gone. From the window to the backyard to…where? How far could she have possibly run? The image of that single wing trembling enters my mind. I continue circling the neighborhood, shouting Miri’s name so many times it sounds alien in my mouth. The mid-autumn air floods my lungs as I shout, hoping that she’ll come to her senses. Hoping maybe she’ll return.
I return to our neighborhood, making calls and Facebook posts and notifying anyone who might be nearby. The sun is starting to rise, and I realize that this is the longest she’s been missing. She’s gone. I know she is. I feel strained, pushed and pulled to limits that have done something to me. I’m less than what I was.
I shamble to the backyard. To the old swing-set that was there long before my family purchased the house. Approaching it now, it holds the same heavy posture as an old monument. Something that contains more memories than I could ever hope to hold. Something that very well could outlive me. My swing is the one on the left; always was. It’s too small for me now, but it’s strong enough to support my weight, and I manage to squeeze myself into the seat. A cool breeze rushes and swirls around me. There was a time when Miri and I would meet here every day after school. Sometimes we sat in silence. Some days we would be talking so incessantly our jaws ached. I don’t remember the last time we sat together; I’m sure we didn’t know it was the last time. Probably when I was entering high school. When our hips started to grow, and our lives were occupied by lists of things to do and people to see and places to go.
“She’s gone,” I say out loud. Because otherwise, I could hope. Otherwise I could say that this is just like those other times.
“She’s gone,” I say out loud again. As my body relaxes into the too-tight seat as best it can, I feel this cold relief settle over me. Tonight, I will not be opening the medicine log. I will go to bed in my room, alone. Lingering in my family home like an obnoxiously stubborn ghost. I have work on Monday. That is the one task lying ahead of me. Work on Monday.
I begin to swing now. I can’t go as high as I once did. Instead, I only seem to be able to move sideways, knocking into my sister’s swing and the support beam. She had sworn that once, when I was bedridden with strep, she managed to swing all the way around. I never believed her, but we would test it out, going higher and higher, trying to outdo one another. Sometimes it helped if you pretended you were flying. I would throw my head back, my sister’s laughter filling my ears, and imagine myself entering endless sky.
