I trailed off, feeling foolish, my gaze dropping to the desk. This is when you say you have no idea what I’m talking about, I thought.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking. I hope you know I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I looked up again, frowning in confusion.
“Accidents happen all the time—without or without alcohol being involved,” she continued. “It doesn’t make what happened less tragic, doesn’t make it anyone’s fault. It wasn’t even like she’d had all that much—but when you’re petite, like—well, you, it can certainly have an effect.”
She wasn’t making any sense.
“What are you talking about? Anna hadn’t had anything to drink. They were supposedly going to drink at Lily’s place, but Anna never got there.”
“No, they found—” She cut herself short and searched my face, looking for some kind of understanding, some sign that I knew what she was talking about.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I must have been confusing her with someone else.”
There are lies that are subtle and hard to spot, and then there are lies that burn with the brightness of a million suns, blinding you with their sheer audacity.
“With someone else?” My disbelief was palpable.
“Look, I shouldn’t have said anything.” She paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
I continued to stare at her. She shook her head. “Shit.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying Anna was drunk?”
“I’m not saying anything. I didn’t say anything.” She wrapped her fingers together, squeezing them tight, as if trying to regain control of the situation. “I’m sorry, but I think you should go.” She didn’t look at me as she said it, not in the eyes, anyway, instead focusing on an area between my mouth and my chin.
“I don’t understand,” I repeated, at a loss for any other words.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” she said. She got up and opened the door. “You should leave now.”
“She was my twin,” I said desperately. “How can it be wrong for you to talk to me about her? Why can’t you just tell me?”
She looked me in the eye for a moment. And there it was, that sadness again.
“I think you should talk to your parents,” she said.
Once, I made an effort to really talk to him, thinking that if I opened up, he’d follow suit. I told him about how you and I had been obsessed with Greek myths growing up. Told him about how angry you’d gotten with Orpheus, going into the underworld to find his wife, to bring her back, only to lose her by turning to see her right before they’d reached the surface again. Told him that I’d always loved the story of Icarus, that I’d been fascinated with the idea of this man who’d soared so close to the sun, wondered if those few perfect moments before the wax melted were almost worth it, to fly like that.
After I finished I thought maybe he’d tell me a story about himself.
He didn’t.
I don’t think he’d even listened to what I said.
AT DINNER THAT NIGHT, I was very quiet.
My parents were debating whether we had anything for dessert when I cleared my throat and made the words come out.
“Is there something I should know about Anna’s death?”
Mom looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”
“About her death, about that night, is there something you haven’t told me? Something the police told you?”
She looked at Dad. They exchanged a long look, as if trying to gauge whether the other one had slipped up and said something.
“Something like what?” Mom asked carefully. “Did someone say something to you?”
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t fish around to see what I already know. Just tell me.”
“We told you everything important,” Dad said. “We did.”
“What did you not tell me—what did you decide I don’t need to know?”
“It’s not like that. It’s just…” He looked over at Mom and this time she nodded. “They did a tox screen. They found some alcohol in her blood.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It wasn’t that much. And there was nothing else, just alcohol,” Mom said. “Really. It doesn’t change anything. Not to us.”
“Nothing else? What are you even talking about? She wouldn’t have had anything to drink.”
“The police found two empty beer bottles in her closet,” Dad said softly. “She must have drunk them before heading out. We already knew about them. The tox screen just confirmed it.”
“No, that’s not right. That’s not what happened. They must have gotten the test wrong. They must have mixed it up with someone else.”
“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” Mom said. “But this is why we didn’t tell you—we were worried you’d get upset. This doesn’t change anything. Kids sneak out, have a beer, all the time, and they’re fine—this was just a terrible accident. It’s no one’s fault.”
“But you’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I found myself standing up, my words echoing through the room. Mom leaned forward against the table and began to cry silently. “Show me the report,” I said, trying to bring my voice down a notch, to sound calmer, more reasonable. “They’ve got it wrong.”
Dad put his arm around Mom, like he was sheltering her from me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I know it isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
“That’s not what this is,” I said. “They messed up. Give me the report.”
“We don’t have a report,” Dad said. “We don’t want one. The police chief himself told us the findings, and they confirm what we already suspected. That’s all we need. You have to accept this. It’s important that we all accept it.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it again and stiffly pushed away from the table.
Dad called my name but I kept on going, up the stairs, into my room, closing the door behind me.
I clambered into the top bunk and pulled the
