A World Without You(52)

Phoebe sits down at the top step, her bright pink socks parallel with my eyes.

“I think I’m going to try to do a foreign-exchange program,” Phoebe says suddenly.

“You mean, like, some kid from Africa or China or some other country is going to share a room with you?” Rosemarie asks.

“You do realize that Africa is not a country, right?” Jenny tells her, leaning over the swing so that Rosemarie can see her arched brow.

“Yeah, it is.”

“It’s a continent.”

“No,” Phoebe says. “I mean I think I’m going to be the one to go to Africa or China or something.”

Rosemarie and Jenny both stop swinging. “What?!” Jenny says at the same time Rosemarie exclaims, “Why?”

“I just . . . I want to get away.” Phoebe says in a distant voice, as if she can already envision herself in Africa or China or something.

I feel like I’m spying, and I hate it. But why does Pheebs want to leave? Is something wrong? I scoot around under the porch, trying to see her better, but her face is hidden from me.

Phoebe leans back over the porch, looking toward her friends. “I mean, I want to explore. See the world. All that stuff.”

“There’s the class trip to Europe,” Jenny points out.

“Yeah, I know,” Phoebe says. “That’s a backup plan. I don’t care where I go, really—I just want to go.”

“I don’t.” Rosemarie kicks her feet, making the swing go higher. Jenny wasn’t ready and nearly falls off.

“I might one day. In college, maybe.” Jenny grabs the chain, stilling the swing. Rosemarie glares at her.

Phoebe wraps her arms around her knees. She looks very small from my vantage point, like a wounded animal or a forgotten child.

“What did your parents say?” Jenny asks quietly. Rosemarie puts her feet down, making the swing stop completely.

After a moment, Phoebe says, “I haven’t told them.”

“With your brother already gone—”

“He’s not dead.” Phoebe cuts Jenny off. “And besides, they probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”

“Well, I think it’s brave,” Rosemarie says when Jenny opens her mouth again. “You’re really brave, Pheebs. You’re not scared of anything.”

“Everyone’s scared of spiders,” Jenny says, trying to make a joke.

But Phoebe’s not. I remember when we first moved into this house, when I was seven and Phoebe was five. It’s a really old house, and our parents had to practically gut it to remodel it, but they were too poor to do it all at the same time, so they went room by room. Phoebe and I had to take turns sharing a room while each of our bedrooms was remodeled. One day, just as we were going to bed, a giant spider—a huge furry thing that made my heart race and my stomach churn—landed directly on Phoebe’s head, its legs dancing across the fine strands of her hair.

I had grinned, expecting my sister to freak out when I told her there was a spider on her, but instead she just dipped her head, shook her hair out, and looked at the thing when it fell from her to her pillow. She reached out and poked it with one stubby finger, and the spider scurried away.

“I’m not scared of spiders,” Phoebe says, but there is no triumph in her voice.

“It’s not spiders for me; it’s snakes,” Rosemarie says with a shudder. “My daddy ran over one when he was taking me to band practice today, and ohmahgah, it was so gross. Its body was still—” Rosemarie twists up her arms, her face scrunched in disgust.

“I’m not scared of snakes either.”

Rosemarie leans over, the porch swing squeaking. “Then what are you scared of, show-off?”

I lean forward too, curious as to what my little sister is frightened of. Probably something stupid—if she’s not scared of spiders or snakes, maybe she hates butterflies.

Or maybe it’s me. I’m the freak of the family, I’m the one who’s not in control. I’d forgotten all about taking her to see the Titanic and getting her injured. Maybe I’ve done that before. Maybe she’s scared of me showing up in her life, dragging her off to a different time and place and leaving her there.

Like I did with Sofía.

“I’m scared of Capgras delusion,” Phoebe says.

“What?” Jenny asks.

Phoebe turns around, leaning her back against one of the wooden columns of the porch. “Capgras delusion. It’s when you wake up one day and you think someone you love isn’t real. Like, maybe you think that person is actually a robot, not a human. Or a doppelg?nger. Or whatever. But you look at this person that you love, that you have always loved, and instead of seeing him, you see someone else. Something snaps inside of you, and what you thought was real doesn’t feel real anymore. So you look at this person you love and you feel like he’s just . . . gone, replaced by this weak imitation.”

“That’s crazy,” Rosemarie says.

“That’s the point,” Phoebe says, her voice rising. “And it can just happen one day, to anyone. No one knows the cause. There’s no cure. One day everything’s fine, and the next day everything you thought was true feels fake. You spend the rest of your life believing—really believing—that the person you were in love with is gone and you’re stuck with this replacement.”