Chapter 3

He didn't turn it.

He just knocked. Two soft, hesitant taps against the wood.

"Scarlett?" he whispered, leaning his forehead against the door frame. "You awake in there?"

I was right above him, looking down at his thinning hair and the new gray patches at his temples. "I'm right here!" I screamed.

But he didn't hear a thing.

"Listen, I know your chest is tight," Dad murmured to the locked door. He set the steaming mug of honey water and the bottle of Robitussin on the floor. "I brought you some cough syrup. Drink the water while it's hot. It'll soothe your throat."

A bitter laugh bubbling up in my chest. I don't have anything, I thought.

He waited for a response. When the basement remained dead silent, he let out a heavy sigh. He thought I was giving him the silent treatment.

"Listen, I'm sorry about tonight," Dad said, his tone softening into a guilt-ridden plea. "Tomorrow, once Lila's heart rate is fully stable... I'll take you downtown. Just you and me. We'll go to that illustration gallery you've been talking about for six months. And we can grab a slice of that viral cinnamon apple pie you wanted to try. Okay?"

He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up.

"Get some sleep, kiddo," he muttered. He turned around and walked back down the hallway, leaving the medicine sitting uselessly on the cold floor.

I watched his back disappear into the shadows. That was Dad. He always chose the easiest way out. A half-hearted apology and an empty promise for a "tomorrow" I was never going to see.

About fifteen minutes later, I heard footsteps again.

This time, it was Mom.

She didn't tip-toe. She marched over, her arms crossed, but when she reached the door, her posture crumbled. She slowly squatted down, her silk pajama pants pooling on the floor. For the first time in years, she didn't sound angry. She sounded exhausted.

"Scarlett," she said softly.

I drifted down until I was face-to-face with her. Her eyes were red and swollen.

"I know you're not asleep," Mom whispered, tracing the grain of the wood with her fingernail. "And I know you think I'm a monster. I know you've taken a lot of hits in this family. I'm not blind. I see it."

I froze. Was she actually apologizing?

"Once we get past this hurdle..." Mom swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "Things are going to change. I promise you. When Lila... when she doesn't need it anymore, you can move into her room. It gets the best sunlight. We'll repaint it that dusty blue color you love. We'll even put up those stupid starry night lights you asked for when you were twelve."

My ghostly form flickered. A cold realization washed over me.

When Lila doesn't need it anymore.

She was giving me my sister's room because she fully expected my sister to be dead. This wasn't an apology. This was her drafting a will.

"And your art prep classes," Mom continued, tears spilling over her eyelashes. "I already saved up half the tuition. We'll enroll you in the spring. I swear. And next year, when you turn nineteen, we'll throw you a massive party. You can invite all those messy art studio friends of yours. We'll do it up right."

Mom stopped talking, leaning closer to the wood. She waited.

Silence. 

Not a single sound came from the basement. I sat right in front of her, but the silence between the living and the dead was absolute.

Mom's posture stiffened. She scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound. The guilt in her eyes vanished, quickly curdling into that familiar, sharp resentment. She thought I was just being stubborn, throwing a tantrum and deliberately ignoring her peace offering.

"So why couldn't you just act your age tonight?!" she hissed, smacking her palm against the door. "Lila might not wake up tomorrow morning! Do you get that?! She took all the bad genes, Scarlett! She took the failing heart so you could walk around perfectly healthy! She is dying instead of you, and you can't even stomach one night in the basement without causing a scene?!"

She was sobbing now, heavy, ugly gasps for air. "You're so selfish!" she choked out. She covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking violently. Unable to say another word, she scrambled to her feet and practically ran back to the living room.

I followed her.

Mom sat cross-legged on the living room rug. She pulled a plastic bag out of the coffee table drawer. Balloons.

She put a blue balloon to her lips and blew. One breath, one tear rolling down her cheek. She tied it off, wiped her eyes, and grabbed a pink one. She was making a surprise for tomorrow morning. She wanted Lila to wake up, walk down the stairs, and see a room full of balloons.

She was celebrating the survivor, completely unaware that she had killed the healthy one.

Ding-dong.

The doorbell cut through the silence like a gunshot.

Mom jumped, dropping a half-inflated balloon. She looked at the wall clock. It was 3:00 AM. She frantically wiped her face with the back of her hand and hurried to the front door.

She pulled it open.

"Dad?" Mom gasped, her eyes wide. "What are you doing here? It's three in the morning."

Grandpa Harold stood on the porch. He wore his heavy flannel jacket, smelling strongly of pine needles, sawdust, and cold night air. There were dark smudges of engine grease on his knuckles. He lived two hours away in a small cabin up in the mountains.

In his left hand, he held a heavy steel thermos. In his right, two neatly wrapped brown paper boxes.

"My damn truck broke down on the interstate," Grandpa grumbled, pushing past her. His heavy work boots thudded against the hardwood floor. "I tried to make it before midnight for their birthday, but I was stuck waiting two hours for a tow truck. Had to catch a cab the rest of the way."

"Where are my girls? It's their birthday."

"Dad, you should have just called. It's way too late," Mom said, trying to block him from going further inside. "They're already asleep. Lila had a long day, she needs to rest. You can see them tomorrow—"

"I told you I'd be here for their birthday, and I'm here," Grandpa said stubbornly, completely ignoring her.

He walked into the kitchen and set the steel thermos on the counter. "I made Scarlett's favorite. Snow fungus and pear soup. Simmered it for four hours. It clears the lungs out. She needs it for that cough."

He placed the two brown boxes next to the thermos. "And these are from Eleanor."

Eleanor, my late grandma.

Mom froze. "Mom made those?"

"Before she passed," Grandpa said, his gruff voice catching slightly. "She explicitly told me to give them to the girls on their eighteenth birthday. Hand-knit cashmere scarves and suede winter gloves."

He tapped the slightly larger box. "I made sure to bring the extra-thick set for Scarlett. Your mother knew how bad she gets in the winter. She knew Scarlett needed the extra warmth."

I drifted closer to the box. Grandma. She had been gone for three years, but she still remembered me.

Grandpa turned around. His sharp eyes scanned the living room. He saw the deflated balloons scattered on the rug. He saw the single plate with half a slice of cake. He saw the banner hanging unevenly over the fireplace that read: Happy 18th Birthday Lila!

Just Lila. My name wasn't on it.

Grandpa's weathered face hardened.

"Diane," he said, his voice dangerously low.

"Dad, please don't start," Mom pleaded, her voice shaking. "We just got Lila settled. Dr. Evans said her heart—"

"Cut the crap, Diane," Grandpa snapped, stepping toward her. He looked around the empty, painfully quiet house. His gaze swept past Lila's closed bedroom door upstairs, then landed on the dark hallway leading to the basement.

He looked dead at my mother.

"Where is Scarlett?"