Grave

Something is spinning; a pinwheel of light, up above me.

I open my eyes a little wider and the ceiling fan’s hiss filled my ears. On my right, my floor-to-ceiling windows are fogged up and flurries of snow fall over the cityscape in the distance. White clouds line the skyscrapers. My reflection stares back at me through the glass: a white face, long lashes framing reddened eyes.

It has to be a dream. I’m not changing. My sister is not gone. Any minute now, she’ll run into the room, kick off her alligator slippers, and jump on my bed. Her bottle-blonde hair extra wavy from the shower, deep blue eyes like mine smiling. I wait.

And wait.

A gust of wind shakes the paint-chipped walls and I sit up in the bed, hugging the blankets around my shaking, goosebumped legs.
She’s really gone.

I press my fingers to my eyes and a warm tear slips into my palm, and down my wrist. Tears. My eyes were red from crying, not from the disease crawling beneath my skin. I rub my arm tenderly—it’s grayish tone spreading ombre to the crook of my elbow.

The fan’s rhythmic turning becomes deeper in my head, like pressure against a dam, until I hear nothing. The infection is all I see, my arm, growing closer and closer. I blink, and the noise comes back. My phone is ringing.

I crawl out of bed and my feet touch the cold floor. I tug open the metal sliding door to the living room and the monochrome walls and paved floor begin to swim. The raggedy patchwork couch, the tiny TV with the antenna—even the kitchen, in the far corner, a pink fridge and the sad-excuse-for-a-stove swerve.

Beep.

I fall on my hands and knees. Roll over to my back.

“Cam? Lauren? You there? You girls really need to answer your phone. I’m bringing the mail up.”

Beep.

The ceiling looks to be caving in. I close my eyes, knowing it isn’t. It can’t be.

Knock, knock.

I laugh.

I’ve gone mad. Only solution.

More knocking.

“Come in,” I shout.

The door creaks open and I avert my eyes. I roll over to my side and two snow-covered boots step towards me. I follow them up past her brown stockings and paint-stained dress, and the plush army surplus jacket hugging her tiny waist—to my neighbor Stephanie. She drops a pile of mail with a smack, “Oh my god.”

My dark brown hair falls into my face. Pouring above my chest and around my arms, entrapping me. I feel like I’m gonna vomit, but I choke it back.

“What are you doing down there? You look like crap.” Stephanie kneels beside me, forcefully rolling me over to my back with a single push. “Where’s Lauren? Off with that boyfriend of hers?”

“She’s not with Rady,” I say. Squeeze my eyes tight. Deep breath. Many deep breaths. I touch my forehead; hot as an iron. “She’s gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

I clutch my dying arm around my body, hiding it, and stifle a sob.

“Cam?”

I change my tone until I’m laughing, writhing on the floor. “Nothing,” I say, wiping some tears. “She’ll be back,” I lie.

Stephanie wrinkles her upturned nose and brushes her bob of black hair from her eyes. She stands, grabs the mail, and hands it to me.

I sit up and pretend to sort through it.

“I’m just down the hall, dear.” She says quietly.

A few moments later, I look up, and she’s gone, the door swinging shut.

I sit there for awhile, in the silence, the snowfall brushing the windows in clumps. I’m no longer sick, and yet my arm is tingling.