Carissa Ann Lynch - My Sister is Missing

Thankfully, the road flattened out again, and right away, I was back on autopilot, taking a right on Painter’s Creek Road and then a sharp left on Knobby Pine. There were no more children on bikes, the old farm roads abandoned. Population: nobody cares. There were just too few to count, although that number had probably grown since I’d last come back.

A thousand times I’d made these turns—making the drive back and forth from my first job at Maggie’s Mart, driving myself to junior prom after Paul Templeton had stood me up, and my first wreck, when I’d T-boned Mrs Roselle. For the record, the accident wasn’t my fault – that woman always ran the stop sign on Lowell’s Lane, which intersected with Painter’s Creek Road.

My sister’s house, and the place where I grew up, was right up ahead, exactly where I left it all those years ago…

The trees opened up and there it was: the crooked old sign for the ‘Bare Border Inn’. It whistled back and forth in the wind as I turned down my sister’s driveway. The ‘inn’ was nothing more than a two-story, eight-room house that my grandparents used to run as a bed and breakfast back in the Fifties. To me, it had always just been our house, but my mom and dad had never taken down the sign.

This place has character. History. You can’t get rid of that , my mother had told me.

The bubbly vibrations of gravel beneath my tires welcomed me home for the first time in years.

I’d ripped and roared through town, but now all I wanted to do was slow down. I wasn’t ready for this reunion – the one between my sister and I or the one with my own childhood. Going back was like returning to the scene of a crime when you were guilty: it wasn’t advisable.

But I’m not a criminal. I have nothing to run from, right?

The house itself loomed like a ghoulish shadow, a black silhouette against a backdrop of crisp summer sun. Only, the sun was fading now, a gloomy dull film settling over the rickety inn…

The driveway was longer than I remembered, and the further I got down it, the foggier the air around the Civic became.

The inn was set back from the road in a clearing, thick woods surrounding it on two sides. Almost like an appendage, like it was a part of the woods, not the other way around. I could sense movement beyond the trees … barefoot children scurrying through the branches, keeping beat with the sluggish pace of the rental car.

These were the children of summer. Bees zipping, bird wings flapping, the rolling water of the creek – all part of their never-ending summer soundtrack. In reality, there wasn’t anyone moving through the trees, only ghosts of the children my sister and I once were. The sticky taste of cherry Kool-Aid still clung to my upper lip, mixed with the sweat and dirt from running in that muggy, marshy forest…

There was a pang in my chest – the concept of family was something I hadn’t thought about in a long time. There are crevices inside me, yearning to be filled , I thought, and then I shuddered at the memories and laughed at my own silly thoughts.

Off to my right was a flat field, and in the distance, despite the fog, I could just make out the shape of the Tennors’ cottage, and beyond that, Goins Farm. I looked left and right, from the woods and back to the field, and now I had no other choice but to face the giant looming before me. Here it was— home. For such a simple, monosyllabic word, it contained so much meaning. So much memory.

I wish I could say that the house looked different, older like the sign. I half-expected it to look more modern, new paint or shingles, at least. But the two-story inn looked just the same. Pale blue shutters, faded windows, blood-red flowers, and overgrown plants licking up the sides of it. In the low-setting fog, it was almost like a house from a storybook. Memories. It held almost all of mine, and so many of those weren’t good…

A chill ran up my spine as I parked the Civic next to, what I could only guess, was my sister’s khaki-colored Jeep. After putting the car in gear, I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Am I ready for whatever it is my sister has to say?

Who was I kidding? I already knew why she asked me here; the only real question was: why now?

She was pissed off at me, for not coming home for our father’s funeral, but that was nearly a year ago. If she was going to say something, why didn’t she say it then?

Although we had been estranged—besides the wedding nine years ago—we still talked occasionally via text. Neither one of us had ever been fond of phone calls, but lately, even the texts had come fewer and farther between.

I know she’s sore at me about the funeral, but I thought she’d get over it after a while. Maybe that was it … maybe she called me here to ream me out and get it over and done with, I considered. You’re supposed to come home for funerals; you’re supposed to mourn people when they die. It’s just what you do , I could imagine my mother saying, if she were still alive. But on the days leading up to my father’s funeral, I couldn’t force myself to pack my things. I couldn’t force myself to pretend I wasn’t angry, to pretend that he was this upstanding man who didn’t break my mother’s heart…

‘Emily?’ I jerked at the sound of my sister’s voice. She was bent down next to the driver’s window, her own face inches from mine. Stunned back to reality, I rolled the window down.

She was already talking to me through the glass, her words warbled and low. ‘Wow. What were you thinking about, Em? That was one hell of a daze you were just in.’

I could make up some sort of stupid lie, but I won’t. This was my sister – sisters don’t lie to each other, even if they’re not as close as they once were.

‘I’m sorry. It’s creepy being back here, to tell ya the truth. I’m excited to see you, but also worried about what this thing is you want to talk to me about. Before you say anything, I – I should have been here for you, for dad … the funeral…’ As the words tumbled out, they were strangled, like I was trying to say them from under water.

But before I could utter one more misshapen word, Madeline yanked the car door open and scooped me into a hug. I was surprised to find myself shaking with relief, my eyes brimming with tears I didn’t know I had. I hadn’t seen my sister in so long, yet her arms were warm and soothing, the way a real home should feel. I’d missed her so much.

Promise me, her voice whispered through the trees. Promise me we’ll be more than sisters. It was another memory, but one I hadn’t remembered until now: Madeline using mom’s kitchen shears to draw blood from both of our fingers. Summer sisters, she had called us.

‘I’m not mad at you about the funeral, Em. I’m really not.’

‘You’re not?’ We were still holding onto each other, and I whispered the words into her hair, relief flushing over me. Her sandy blonde hair still smelled like that stupid coconut cream shampoo she’d been using since we were teens. She nearly broke my finger once, yanking that prized bottle of shampoo from my hands as I teasingly threatened to pour it down the drain after she made fun of me about a boy.

‘I’m not mad, I swear.’ Madeline stood up from where she was crouched beside me. She dusted her hands off on her jeans and then worked tangles out of her hair with her fingers.

Her hair was still wavy and unkempt, just the way I remembered, but her face was creased with age. There were tiny little crinkles around her mouth, and even the lines around her eyes had deepened. For the first time, I realized how much she resembled our mother.