Yolk(13)

“It is fascinating,” she says. I beam back at her proudly. “Knowing that we don’t know everything leaves room for mindfulness. It opens up the possibility that thoughts and feelings can change. Perception is a lot more subjective than anyone feels in the moment.”

“Totally.” I nod enthusiastically, before serving up a thoughtful pause. “But don’t you think that sometimes it’s better not to know anything at all? My sister, June, is the least self-aware person in the world and she’s really fuck—she’s extremely accomplished.” I try not to curse in front of Gina. She has Diptyque candles on her desk and wears pantyhose.

She glances up. My therapist removes her hand from her chin and uncrosses her legs.

Unclasping the enormous silver cuff bracelet from her wrist, she sets it down on the tasteful coffee table between us and studies me. I wonder if she’s about to tell me something unbelievably profound.

“How old is your sister?” she asks.

“Tw-twenty-three,” I stammer, holding my breath.

“And she’s extremely accomplished?”

I nod, watchful. I know it’s not how psychology works, but a part of me really believes Gina’s like an oracle.

“You know you’ve never mentioned your sister before?” she says, and then writes something down in her notebook before I can answer.

“Where does she live?”

“Twenty-sixth and Sixth.”

She writes even more down. I feel like I’m failing a test.

“Are you close?”

“Yes?”

“But you’ve never mentioned her before and you both live here.”

“Okay.”

“Do you find this significant?”

I hate when she does this.

“I guess so…”

“How so?”

“Well, we have nothing in common. She doesn’t like me and I don’t even know why.”

“What would she say if I asked her?”

That she resents me for being popular. That she blames me for her own unhappiness and wishes I was never born. That I’m a burden on Mom and Dad because I’m a baby who can’t get over herself. That I’m vapid and vain and that I’m selfish. That I’m a slut and an attention whore. And that I don’t call my mother or hang out with my sister because I’m ashamed of where I came from and that’s why I’ll never be happy.

“That she doesn’t approve of my decision-making.”

“Why?”

“Did you ever see that documentary where the brother murders the sister’s boyfriend because the sister groomed him into believing that her boyfriend stabbed their mother to death?”

It’s a true story. The sister was on America’s Most Wanted.

“No.”

“Well, it’s streaming on Netflix or Amazon right now.” I wonder if Gina even watches television. “They’re Korean.”

“I haven’t seen it.”

This session isn’t going the way I’d planned.

“Well, sometimes siblings don’t get along. For whatever reason, it’s the path they’re on,” I tell her.

“How do you feel about your sister?”

My sister died, I imagine myself saying to Gina in the future.

I feel the tears teasing at the tip of my nose.

There’s this whole theory that younger siblings are spoiled. That we’re enfeebled from all the mollycoddling. Soft. That by the time it was our turn to rebel, our parents had already given up. I disagree with this wholly. It’s firstborns who can’t take no for an answer. Youngest kids have iron constitutions. Hardy hides from lifetimes of rejection. A hundred million entreaties for their older siblings to hang out answered by shoves, eye rolls, slammed doors, and stone-cold ditches with peals of laughter.

It’s always felt like pressing into a bruise to talk about June.

It’s why I don’t do it.

I shrug. “I just wish she liked me.”





chapter 9


After therapy, in the hour before work, I meet up with Ivy at the Chinese bakery on West Fourth. She kisses the air near my ear and her hair’s wet. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she says as if she’s ever on time. “I’m coming from SoulCycle.” We went once, together, ages ago and I almost passed out in the dark, throbbing room. Everything about it felt like an exorcism.

When the class let out, all the hardbodies shiny and triumphant, I watched Ivy slip the borrowed cycling shoes into her bag instead of tossing them in the return chute. She just kept right on talking to me as if it wasn’t happening.

For a second, I’m tempted to look into her gym bag, but it’s not my business or my problem.

“I’m so glad you picked this place.” She nods to the bakery display cases behind us. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” She grabs a pair of orange-handled metal tongs and begins to pile tarts and sweet buns on her plastic tray.

This was a mistake. Seeing Ivy after therapy is like slamming mezcal after a juice fast.

When I join the line behind her empty-handed, she cocks her head. “Really? Nothing?” The dark-haired woman behind the counter slides the pastries into individual wax paper sleeves. “Hold on,” says Ivy to the cashier, turning to me. “Go get something right now. My treat.”