Because You Love to Hate Me(94)

Patrick remarried. Since the day he walked out on Kareena, he hadn’t seen either of his daughters. He thought it for the best. He couldn’t explain it, but thinking of them, thinking of Sera, made him angry.

SERA, AT SEVEN YEARS, TEN MONTHS

Sera said, “The light makes people angry.”

Kareena closed the door in her face.

SERA, AT NINE YEARS, THREE MONTHS

Having a second child had been Kareena’s idea. She’d always pictured herself as a mother of two children—sisters. They would play princess dress-up and go away to summer camp and share secrets and have crushes on the same boy and cry together and be the maids of honor at each other’s weddings and love each other, love each other, love each other.

But Patrick thought one was enough.

“We’re so happy now,” he said. Callie was one and a half at the time and they’d finally hit their stride as parents. But Kareena could not help what she was, what she wanted.

“Callie needs a playmate, a sister,” she said to Patrick.

“I don’t want her all alone when we die,” she said, upping the stakes.

Eventually, Patrick relented.

For a long time, Kareena hoped the sisters would grow close. But they didn’t. Callie wilted in Sera’s presence. She made other girlfriends. She had playdates and sleepovers and dance parties and treated them like they were her sisters. Kareena didn’t blame her.

SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS

She made three friends at school—the first she’d ever had. Sure, they were the girls no one else wanted as friends, but it was something. Kareena was grateful. Maybe Sera would finally become normal.

SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, NINE MONTHS

Sera was sick, and no one seemed to know how to fix her.

SERA, AT FOURTEEN YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS

Kareena watches Callie’s body burn. She screams and she screams.

III.





PRESENT DAY


A life is a series of past moments, all of them leading you to the present one. The moment doesn’t have to be an event. It can be a sudden insight that changes how you see yourself in the world. These moments serve to clarify you, to sharpen who you really are for yourself and for others. Here are mine:

I am born. I try to cry but find I can’t.

I do not look at all like the rest of my family. My mother doesn’t like this.

A white light lives under my skin. I ask my mother if she has it, too. She doesn’t answer.

My mother does not love me. But she wants to.

I want to be more like Callie. I want to make strangers glad. I want them to ask me: What’s your name, pretty girl? How old are you? Oh my gosh, where did you get those cute shoes? But they don’t ask me questions. Instead, they say: You’re so quiet. They say: Smile. Be more like your older sister. The more perceptive ones say: You like to watch the boys fight.

I make the bad man kill himself. My mother is afraid of me.

I want to be normal. I am the only one with the white light. It leaks out of me, and bad things happen.

It’s my fault Mr. Jordan slaps Sammie so hard that he gets all red and swollen. I make people angry. And afraid. I don’t know how to stop.

It’s my fault Mr. Kelly screams so loud and so long on the playground. His heart is crowded with anger and fear. I did that, too. I don’t know how to stop.

My father loves someone more than he loves my mother. My mother loves Callie more than she loves anyone.

My father leaves us and does not come back.

I dye my hair brown. I wear brown contacts. My mother still does not love me. She cannot.

I deny what I am. For a while, I am successful.

I am sick all spring. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong, but I do. I finally learned how to keep the light under my skin.

I hold the light in. I make a friend. My hair thins, falls like straw around my feet.

I hold the light in. I make another friend. My lips crack to blue.

I hold the light in. I’m too sick to attend school. My skin bleeds color.

Callie gets strong as I get weak. Still, I hold the light in. It burns me from the inside. All spring they—Callie and our mother—wait for me to die.

The light won’t let me die. I burn. I burn. I burn.

Callie comes back from camp. It’s the first summer she’s ever been away from home. Away from me. She comes into my room and she looks better than I’ve ever seen her, beautiful.

Our mother says, “The doctors haven’t been able to fix her.”

Callie says, “Maybe it’s better this way.”

Our mother nods.

Callie comes close to my bedside. Ordinarily, she would never come this close, but I am helpless now with the light trapped under my skin. She says, “I was happy this summer without you.” She says it sharp and fierce, like a stabbing.

I’ve never heard her sound so strong. I hold the light in for her. I want her to be happy. But then she puts her hands over my nose and my mouth. Our mother does nothing. I can’t breathe, and I think, Yes. Let me die. Callie can finally have our mother back. My bones burn, but the light is stronger than me. It will not let me die. And then I finally understand what I am, and it’s a relief. I give all the light to my sister. I let it pour from my skin to hers.

I watch as she turns pale. Finally, she looks like me. I watch as she turns to ash. My mother is still screaming when I leave the house.