Do Not Resuscitate

“You’re not going to school today.”

Good morning to you, too, Dad.

I slump against the doorway, backpack dangling from my fingertips, and stare. My limbs are tired and my head hurts and I want to curl back in a ball till the pain goes away and Dad is smiling that annoying smile. Bright and sunny and way too eager first thing in the morning.

I don’t trust that smile.

I don’t trust any of his smiles.

Val strolls into the dining room and places a steaming cup of coffee in front of Dad. Her smile is much more natural than Dad’s.

“What he means is, we figured you needed a day in. Especially after…” she hesitates, shoots Dad an uneasy look before turning a sympathetic smile at me. “Well, yesterday wasn’t easy.”

Yesterday was hell. Last night was even worse. Today is no better. I’m itching and shaking. I haven’t slept. I want my razors, but, no, Dad took them and locked them in a drawer. With a padlock.

Hashtag overkill.

“I already called the school,” Dad says.

His cheeks must hurt from all the forced smiling. Really, Dad, there’s no need to put on an act. Last night happened. You cried, you saw my scars, you locked up my razors in front of me. Stop smiling. There’s nothing to smile about.

“What’s one more day off?” he asks and gives me an easy, friendly shrug.

But his eyes betray him finally. They drift down to my arms, down to the sweater-covered scars. I can feel them, his eyes. They sear into my skin even though I know he can’t actually see my arms. I’m burning. I’m antsy. I’m… embarrassed.

The look lasts a second, and he’s meeting my eyes again, smiling harder. So awkward. I don’t want to stay home today. I’d rather be at school, away from Dad and his weird expression. I don’t care about dealing with whispers in the hall or teachers calling me out or the exhaustion. I don’t want to be here, not under this kind of scrutiny.

Nowhere is a safe place anymore.

“You look exhausted.”

Nice of him to notice.

“Go get some rest,” Val says. She’s much better at this than Dad is. “I’ll bring you breakfast. What do you want? Bacon, eggs, toast, pancakes, waffles, biscuits,” her list drifts off, and she stands there, smiling pleasantly, hoping for an answer that will never come.

All of it. I’ll take all of it. With syrup. And butter. Multiple sticks of butter. Cookies, too. I’ll have a cake for dessert. The whole fucking cake.

I’m so hungry.

When I don’t give her any answer, she doesn’t let any frustration show. She just says, “I’ll surprise you. Go ahead. Relax.”

“In the living room,” Dad says.

Nearly shouts, really. Calm down, Dad, it’s not that serious. I don’t have anything sharp left.

He was very thorough.

His smile turns sheepish. Weird on him but at least it’s natural. “Brooklyn made a nest. A bunch of blankets and pillows. I’m sure she’d like some company.”

Code for “I want you under my thumb,” “I want you where I can see you,” “I don’t trust you to be by yourself.” Got it, Dad. Taking away my razors wasn’t enough. We have to make sure I don’t flip my shit over it.

This whole nest thing sounds kind of cool, though.

Fantastic use of bribery. A plus.

I turn, leave my perch at the dining room doorway, and head to the living room. My backpack drags against the floor. I don’t have the energy to hike it onto my shoulder. I don’t have the energy to lift my feet of the ground. I don’t have the energy for anything. Staying home was probably a good ruling on Dad’s part.

I stop short in the living room doorway.

Holy crap.

Pillows and blankets and comforters and sheets and a lone quilt. Everywhere. Like someone took all the bedding from around the house and dumped it in the living room. Turned it into a giant bed. Good lord, Brooklyn’s insane.

Or a genius.

I eye the carnage. Definitely genius. Kid’s going to go far in life.

Where is she?

I stare at the lumps under the bedding. Pillow, pillow, pillow, wait, did that one move? No. Pillow, pillow, pillow, Bella’s tail wagging, pillow, Brooklyn’s teddy bear, pillow, who let Shadow in? Well, now Shadow is gnawing on the quilt Grandma made, and I don’t see Brooklyn.

I kick my shoes off, drop my backpack, and carefully step through the pillow-blanket maze. She’s here, burrowed under a mass of blankets and sleeping probably. It’s too early for her to be awake.

“Sissy!”

A screech or a yell or some kind of exclamation of fear and surprise catches in my throat and causes me to choke. I can’t breathe. My heart stops. Literally stops. And I fall against the couch arm, clutch my chest, try to catch my breath. A second, just a second, and then my heart is beating again, way too fast, and I’m gulping air.

I throw a, no doubt wild, wide-eyed look at Brooklyn. She’s smiling, sitting up with a pile of blankets around her body, unaware of the physical panic she caused.

I thought she was a fucking pillow.

“I made this,” Brooklyn announces, throwing her arms wide.

I can see that.

“Issa nest.”

I don’t see nest, but good effort.

“You get the couch.”

The offering in question has alternating layers of blanket and pillow and two comforters on top in a nifty circular pattern with a shallow-ish center. Where I’m supposed to cuddle up, of course.

Okay, it resembles a nest

“I made it special.”

Her hazel eyes are saucers, large and round. Adorable. Tentative. Searching for approval from her big sister. As if I would tell her the nest creation is ugly or reject her for failing to create the perfect pillow-blanket nest or crush her dreams. I wouldn’t do any of those things. I’m not a monster. She’s three and my baby sister—half-sister.

I don’t want her to hurt.

“You like it?”

She’s waiting for a sign that I appreciate her efforts. To see her so anxious, it tugs at my weak heart. It doesn’t matter whether or not the nest is perfect. It doesn’t matter if the pillows are lumpy and hurt my bones.

I love it.

So I do the next best thing to telling her. I settle myself into the nest she’s created for me, into the indented center, pull the comforters up over my body, and rest my head against a pillow, facing her. The action meets her approval. She perks up, immediately burrows back under the blankets in an excited flurry of movement, until she’s a tiny blanket burrito, facing me.

“Comfy?” She nods, doesn’t wait for me to talk. “Me, too. I made Daddy helped me, but he messed up.” She shakes her head in her sage-like fashion. “He doesn’t know how ta make a nest.”

Men.

She pats her pillow. “I fixed it.”

Go figure.

“Shadow and Bella helped.”

Bella’s tail wags faster at the sound of her name, and her body starts wiggling under the blankets, crawling blindly in an effort to get closer to Brooklyn. Shadow continues chewing the quilt. I’m sure they were super helpful.

“Shadow’s appose’ta’be outside.” She feigns apologetic. “He eats everything, and he’s smelly.”

This makes her break out into giggles. On a normal day, I would find her amusement cute, adorable, funny, but today, I can’t find the humor beyond my own self-consciousness. Which is silly and narcissistic. She wasn’t talking about me. She was talking about the dog.

But the whispers in the hall follow me everywhere.

Sucks royally.

She smiles conspiratorially at me. “I let ‘im in.”

Of course, she did. Brooklyn’s cute enough to get away with anything. She’ll always be cute enough to get away with anything.

“Mommy said, ‘No, Shadow’ lots, and Daddy tried ta get ‘im out, but he wanted to stay. Right, Shadow?” She twists to him.

His response is to continue gnawing on the quilt, but his tail wags, and that’s enough for Brooklyn. She turns her bright, excited, dimpled smile on me.

“He’s named after Daddy.”

I know, Brooklyn, I know.

“Imma get a doggy and name it after you!”

She means the thrilled statement as a compliment. Naming a dog after me is the epitome of paying tribute to me in her mind. I don’t deserve it, the tribute, her fascination, the idolism. I haven’t done much in my sixteen years.

“Then, I can hug you all the time!”

Oh.

Tears cloud my vision. Uncomfortable heat spreads up my neck and to my face. My nose tingles.

Cue the waterworks.

I sniff, bite the fleshy inside of my cheek. Blood, coppery and gross, touches my tongue. A small amount. Not enough to matter. My cheek is still intact. It hurts. Barely. I’m still going to cry. Over having a dog named after me.

“Sissy?”

A little hand is shoved in my face, fuzzy through the tears. Brooklyn. She’s trying to comfort me. She doesn’t know why I’m about to breakdown, doesn’t know the idea of her hugging Doggy Danny is enough to send me over because I hardly have a solid grasp on my emotions. Tears are tears to her.

It’s sweet, really. Misguided but sweet.

Her hand remains in my face, ready and waiting and calling to me. Of all the attempts to comfort me—the hugs, the reassuring words, the promises of safety—this one is the most tempting. I want to hold her hand, as if holding her hand is going to solve all my problems. Starving is making me delusional.

I take her tiny hand in mine. To prove to myself the imagined answers to my sadness do not rest in the hands of my three-year-old sister.

Warmth. All I can register is the warmth radiating from her little hand. It’s weirdly comforting, warms my freezing palm, makes my heart swell. I squeeze her hand in an attempt to steal more of her warmth. I want to stop being cold for once. Brooklyn squeezes back, and in her gentle squeeze, there’s the promise to something better. I don’t know why. I don’t understand. It’s there, though, in her warm hand and her patient silence.

Or maybe starvation is causing my brain to malfunction.

I grasp onto the comfort anyway. Manufactured by malnourishment or actually there, I’m taking whatever I can get.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

A couple of tears dribble down to my cheek, but no more take their place, and my vision clears. I’m left looking at Brooklyn’s concerned face. She studies me for a moment. Squints her eyes. Wrinkles her button nose. And then she flashes me the most extravagant smile. One that lights up her entire face, makes her glow.

She’s gorgeous.

She’s smart.

She’s talented.

She’s the one Dad was thinking of when he delivered his stupid speech.

I’m almost jealous of her, but I can’t find the passion in my heart to make the emotion concrete. I can’t be Brooklyn. I’ve accepted that. It doesn’t matter much now anyway.

I try to take my hand back, but she keeps a tight grip on it. She doesn’t want to let go for whatever strange reason is floating around in her imaginative head. So I let her keep holding it. I don’t want to relinquish her warmth yet.

“Guess what.”

The sky is falling, Chicken Little?

“No,” she says, like I verbally answered when I most definitely did not. “Mommy’s bringin’ food!”

She wiggles. Bella catches onto her enthusiasm and wiggles under the blankets, lost in the sea of fabric. Shadow’s ears perk. He does not wiggle, but he’s showing his enthusiasm in his own way. Food is that exciting at her age. To the point that her delight rubs off on the creatures around her.

Who am I kidding? Food is that exciting for me, too. My heart rate kicks up at the thought of it. The only difference is I can’t eat it.

I wonder if I can force a heart attack by thinking about food.

“It’s gon’ be yummy.”

I don’t doubt that. Dad burns everything, Mom doesn’t try, but Val, she can cook. She has a gift.

Brooklyn’s face gets serious. A dramatic shift, one that makes me worry. She doesn’t do serious. I don’t know what’s going to come out of her mouth.

“You can hab some of mine.”

No, no, Brooklyn, sweetie, I can’t have some of yours.

Why is she offering? Did Dad put her up to this? Ugh, this whole situation reeks of him. I wouldn’t put it past him, coaching Brooklyn to worm her way into my head and make me crack. He has no shame. He used Val.

Cheater. I wasn’t prepared for this.

“You don’t eat ‘nuff. Mommy says, always, you gotsta eat lots ta feel better. You gotsta be strong and helphy.” She gives me sad puppy eyes. “You not strong and helphy.”

Or Dad didn’t put his youngest up to recon and Brooklyn is taking the whole “Danny is sick” thing too seriously.

I’m not sick.

I’m not healthy, but I’m sure as hell not sick.

“You need ta eat more, or you’re gonna die.”

Here’s hoping.

She says it to be dramatic, but she stops to think about what she’s said, twisting the words around in her head, contemplating the meaning of death. A haunting look seeps into her wide eyes. She understands the permanence of death.

I wish she didn’t.

“Are you gonna die?”

Yes.

I don’t say the word out loud—I know I don’t—but Brooklyn’s eyes well up with tears. Her lower lip quivers. Her button of a nose and chubby, toddler cheeks turn pink. She takes a jagged, gasping breath.

I am the worst sister in the world.

“I don’t want you to die.”

And the tears fall.

I’m baffled. I don’t get this turn of events. I see her twice a year. We’re years apart. She and I don’t talk. We don’t share an intense sisterly bond. We don’t even know each other, and she’s crying over me.

No, she’s not crying over me. She’s crying because death is sad.

Brooklyn is young. In a couple years, she won’t remember my face or my voice or my quirks and habits. I’ll be a vague memory of the shitty sister she once had. A ghost that existed in their house from time to time. I won’t be anything to her. I’m not anything to her.

I don’t want to believe that.

A small part of me, in the very back of my mind, refuses to accept the inevitable, the part of me still holding onto hope despite the fact the world sucks. Doubt and guilt seep through my veins. All because my little sister crying. Over my death.

No, over death in general.

God, but it feels like she’s crying for me.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her. Does she like to be rocked and held? Does she like to be given her stuffed animal? Does she like funny faces? I don’t know, and that frustrates me and upsets me and makes my face hot and my eyes burn. I do the only thing I know how to do.

I cry.

Over not knowing Brooklyn the way I should. Over Brooklyn’s tears. Over being the cause of Brooklyn’s sadness. Over the feeling someone actually cares whether I live or die. Over not knowing how to handle this kind of guilt. I cry and cry and cry and choke on a mangled sob and cry some more. Brooklyn’s hand leaves mine, and for some reason, that makes me cry harder.

Until she starts shoving comforters off of me and pushing my shoulder and climbing onto the couch with me. I welcome her with open arms.

I hold her tight against my body and push my face into her hair. Her tears soak into my sweater. My tears soak into her hair. I rock us. Back and forth. The motion is comforting for her, and her warmth brings comfort to me. Her tears reduce to sniffles, but she continues to cling to my shirt and rub her nose against me.

I want to say something to her, murmur words of comfort, let her know I love her. She deserves at least that, to hear her big sister say “I love you” before I kick the bucket. After weeks of intentionally not speaking, years of unintentionally not saying a word because no one listens—no one ever listens—the urge to verbally reassure her is overwhelming.

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.