Carissa Ann Lynch - My Sister is Missing

The gold knob twisted easily, and I pushed the double doors out, the cool night air hitting me with such force that my nightgown blew up above my waist. It was black as a raven out here, but I stepped out onto the balcony anyway, breathing in the cool lilac summer air. The balcony wasn’t very wide, just enough to stand at the wrought iron railing and catch a breath of air, or lean over it, puffing on a cigarette with your spouse…

A streak of moonlight constellated edges of the tree line, the path I’d feared earlier coming into focus. A sudden chill trickled up my spine as I remembered my flashback near the ominous entrance of the woods. Why couldn’t I remember that day?

Bits and pieces came back, every so often, but most of my memories from that summer day were of the crisp white hospital room where machines whistled and whirred, a small team of doctors bandaging up my head. They didn’t let me go to sleep, I had to fight through the concussion as they stitched my head back together.

My eyes sought truth in the darkness. ‘Why was it so traumatic? It’s not like I hadn’t got hurt while playing before.’ The words were whispered, a plea to the forest gods: tell me why.

My eyes scanned the tree line, for animals or man. A strange smell filled my nostrils – like something charring over an open fire.

My neck prickled as I tried to shake away the sudden sensation that someone was watching me from out there. Waiting. Watching.

All these years, I’d assumed it was just a freak accident – that I’d tripped and hit my head so hard that I couldn’t remember the fall. But if that was truly the case, then why was I so scared to go back? It was just an accident, an incident that could have happened to any kid … kids get hurt all the time. But there was something so scary about the not knowing, the fear of memories lost … what happened in those moments leading up to the fall? Why did those memories never come back? I wondered.

I’m going to have to face those woods and face my fears sooner or later , I decided.

Childishly, I rushed back in, slamming the heavy door behind me. I whipped the curtains closed, covering the door completely.

What I needed to do was get some sleep, but I felt wide awake. Plus, part of me felt like I needed to stay up. I needed to wait for Madi to come home.

My gaze wandered back over to the closet doors. Trembling, I slid the pocket doors apart. Then I slid the cardboard box labelled ‘Pictures’ out onto the carpet next to the bed. There were stacks and stacks of photo albums, some plain and generic, others flowery and neat. I lifted the first album from the top and gently, I flipped through its pages.

These were more photos of my sister and John. I could tell the difference immediately, the before and after children photos. Before, there were pictures of John and Madeline, smiling over plates of fancy food, low-lit smiles in the corner of some bar. There were pictures of them at a rock concert, Madeline flashing a peace sign at the cameraman, who I presumed was John. He, too, looked young and silly in his pictures, sticking his tongue out at my sister.

The after-children photos looked happy, too, but they were of zoo trips and family portraits –a more subdued life. I wondered what happened between them. Why did it all fall apart?

You need to come in here. I can’t deal with these fucking kids. John’s words in the background came floating back to me. Was that what he really said, or was my mind just filling in the blanks?

He seemed normal at the wedding, but what did I really know about him? Maybe having kids changed him … maybe he couldn’t handle Ben with his schedules and quirks? Whatever led to the affair wasn’t any of my business, but I sincerely hoped my sister hadn’t gone after him, trying to get him to come back home. The thought of her doing that, of seeming so desperate, made my stomach curl. But where else could she be? I remembered that worried mask she wore last night … something heavy was on her mind. Was it just about John, or something else?

I sat that album aside and reached for the next. Instantly, I recognized myself in one of the photos. It was my first-grade class photo, and next to it was Madeline’s fourth-grade photo. We almost looked alike at that age.

I kept flipping, past photos of Madeline in cheerleading and me in band, and both of us in our prom dresses. Madeline was asked to the prom by several boys, but she coyly told them all no. I’d almost forgotten until now how tied to the hip Madi was with her two best friends in high school. Right on cue, the next photo was of Madi, her arms looped around Jessica Feeler and Rhonda Sheckles. Oh, how I loathed those girls…

The three of them couldn’t have been any more different from each other, Jessica with her bone-straight blonde hair, Rhonda with swirly red curls and freckles, and Madi in the middle, with her blondish brown hair cut in a jagged bob. But, in this particular picture, Madeline’s hair was dyed platinum blonde. I remembered her begging Mom to buy the dye, to let her change her hair. Rhonda and Jessica stayed over that night, helping her apply the malodorous color to her hair.

At that point, Madeline had moved upstairs to the bonus rooms, to get away from the rest of us. I could remember creeping up those steps, slithering on my belly, as I tried to catch a glimpse of what she and the older girls were up to…

I held the album up, studying the contours of my sister’s face. She was pretty then, and still so pretty now. A little triangle of film poked out from behind the picture of the girls. Gripping it between my nails, I slid another photo out from behind theirs.

I gasped, staring down at the small school photo in my hand. It was a picture of a girl named Sarah Goins. She was probably in fourth grade in this picture. She and I were in the same class, but we may as well have been from different planets.

While most kids spent their free time playing on the swings or chasing each other in a game of tag, Sarah spent her time in the dirt. She liked to make up stories and talk to herself, sometimes even pouring bits of loose gravel and dirt over her own head. Her hair was greasy and limp, her lips and eyes the color of dust balls and slate. I stared at the picture, mesmerized by the girl looking back at me. She was less of a girl, and more like a ghost.

Sarah Goins looked haunted, but wasn’t that what they always said about pictures of dead girls?

Sarah had disappeared in sixth grade. Everyone suspected that she either drowned in Moon Lake by accident or went crazy and ran off. She wasn’t a happy child. Maybe she did run away, but, deep down, I knew she had to be dead. Why else wouldn’t she have come back home?

But, then, I thought about myself … I hadn’t been back home either. Until now.

I didn’t really know Sarah well, none of us did. But a memory was rising – didn’t she give me this picture? I remembered now … Sarah, in her dirt-stained overalls, racing around the playground, a toothy smile on her face. She was handing out these photos of herself; she wanted to trade pictures with the other kids. She came from a poor family; her father dead and her mom left to run the farm on her own. ‘Mom bought my school pictures this year. Here, I want you to have one!’ She looked so happy as she thrust one of the photos into my hand. I told her thank you, and feeling self-conscious, tucked it quickly away in my jeans pocket. Next Sarah approached a group of girls by the jungle gym. ‘Here, please take one,’ she told a girl I didn’t recognize. Sneering, the girl accepted the photo and then promptly, ripped it to pieces. In a flash, she had yanked the rest of the stack from Sarah’s hands. One by one, she shredded the pictures to pieces and then, in a final dramatic gesture, she threw them up in the air. Tiny white flakes of photo paper caught in the air and floated around the playground like a miniature snowstorm.