Sister

          "I'm ready!"

The child's voice was followed closely behind by running footsteps. I sat on the countertop in the bathroom we shared, trying to pronounce words on a shampoo bottle ingredients label.

          "I want the glittery pink kind this time," she said from the doorway.

          Sister was wearing pajamas – her favorite ones, covered in dizzy watermelon slices. The smile on her face was framed by frizzes of dark hair.

          "Alright," I answered. "But only a couple." She walked in and put a sparkling handful of barrettes beside me on the counter. I placed two of them in my lap, pocketed the rest, and picked up a brush. "Okay, turn around."

          I began brushing her hair, teasing through tangles. Here and there, I pulled a stray lock out of her face or snuck a stubborn tress behind an ear.

          "Mom brought home a new book for me today," Sister chimed in. "She says that it's in Contracted, so I don't know if I'll be able to read it yet, but I can read more better than I used to."

          I laughed. "Good! When I finish learning Braille, maybe I'll be able to write you stories too." The reassuring words lingered on my tongue and soured, like the aftertaste of an unpleasant memory.

----

          Sister was a smiling child.

          A month after Sister's fourth birthday, her world turned black. In less than a week, the pink and giggling child our family loved withered away. Summer mornings were meant for cartoons and make-believe, but she was spending hers tossing and turning on the living room couch, crying until she passed out. No medicine, comforting words, or prayer could calm Sister as the biting pain in her head worsened. And all I could do was sit at the kitchen table, digging my fingernails into the veneer.

          Mother and Father gave up working during the day. They darted back and forth through the house instead, arguing with each other over what they could do. Mornings were filled with angry phone calls to doctors that didn't know what was wrong; evenings were spent flipping through medical dictionaries. I could see their faith in protecting the only daughter they had slowly wane; could sense the heartbreak in their voices.

          Sister and Mother vanished one night amongst the sound of chirping cicadas. As we ate dinner at a table with two empty chairs, Father decided to tell me where they had gone.

          "To the hospital." He spoke the words as though they pained him. "But we'll visit every single day." I only nodded, unsure of whether or not I wanted to see what had become of Sister.

          The next evening, Father packed me into the car and drove to the Hospital District. He parked in a garage with ceilings that dipped uncomfortably low and lights that flickered a sickly yellow. The twilight walk to the hospital came alive with the wails of muffled ambulance sirens and the lights of towering skyscrapers.

          A pair of sliding doors at the entrance welcomed us inside. At the reception desk, A woman dressed completely in a whitewashed outfit guided us through a labyrinth of hallways until we stood in front of a door with a placard in the center; the three-digit number printed across it was too faded for anyone to read. Father reached out and turned the doorknob.

          Click;the door swung open. The room was far too dark for me to see inside, but I could faintly hear the rustle of Sister's breathing. As my eyes adjusted, Mother's silhouette was visible against a single moonlit window. When Mother saw us, she rose from her makeshift bed on the window seat and pressed a finger to her lips. Father gave her a quick kiss, and for a brief second, they whispered beside sleeping Sister. Mother then grasped my hand and led me out of the room, but Father stayed behind to guard over his daughter for the night.

          The next week was dabbled with frequent visits to Sister's bedside; I went to see her almost every day. The number of get-well-soon cards and cyclamen flowers in their shiny plastic pots grew, covering entire shelves. When awake, Sister greeted me with a bedside hug and a weak smile; when asleep, I snuck stuffed animals under her arms and taped crayon drawings to the walls. I missed her enormously, (but I'd never say that out loud).

          I remember the first time the nurse let Sister walk. Mother and I spent that entire day in the hospital room, keeping her company. Sister was sitting up in bed, making up lyrics as she sang along to songs on her lime green CD player. Click; a nurse pressed the door open and flashed us a smile. After flipping through a few sheets on a clipboard, the nurse unhooked the IV tube constraining Sister to the bed. Pulling the sheets back to reveal her papery hospital gown, she gradually slipped off the side of the hospital bed and stepped onto the floor. Sister let out a long-awaited giggle as she felt the cold tile beneath her feet.

          After her shower that same night, I noticed for the first time that Sister's sight was gone. She skimmed her hands across the walls as she left the lavatory, calling out to hear where I was; I felt my throat tie up for a moment seeing her like that; seeing someone I loved so wholly helpless. Guiding her back to the lavatory, I plucked a brush off the counter and pulled Sister's long dark hair back. And I began to brush, teasing through tangles. Here and there, I pulled a stray lock out of her face or snuck a stubborn tress behind an ear. Before finishing, I pinned back her bangs with two glittering pink barrettes and told her how pretty she looked; Sister laughed in delight.

          She was in that hospital room for two more weeks, but the afternoon Sister came home, it seemed as though no span of time had passed at all. Click; I opened the door just a crack, greeted with the bright seafoam green walls of Sister's bedroom. Light poured in through four windows covered in flower stickers. The get-well-soon cards had been lined up on top of her dresser, all of her favorite stuffed animals were resting on a rocking chair, and the crayon drawings I'd made for her enveloped the closet door. In the center of the bed, nestled beneath a mound of checkered pillows, I could just barely make out her little frame, all decked out in pajamas – her favorite ones, covered in dizzy watermelon slices.

          And I was a smiling child.