Rachel Caine - Thin Air

“I haven’t seen this in years,” I said. I was taking a guess that Eamon wouldn’t bother with family photos-if he had, and I was pointing at a picture of his dear old mum from Manchester or wherever, I was probably screwed. He already knew my memory was faulty; I just didn’t want him to know the extent of it. He’d probably assume it was confined to a specific period-hell, I’d have assumed that, in his place. The alternative would have seemed ridiculously unlikely.

Whatever he thought, he just said, “Sarah loves that photograph. She said it was your mother’s favorite, as well. You took it, didn’t you?”

I decided the safest course was not to answer. I picked up the picture and stared at it, trying to read its secrets. My mother. What had she been like? Had she been protective? Proud? Absent? Abusive? So many questions, and I knew I wouldn’t get the answers here. Not out of Eamon, anyway.

“Not that I’m unsympathetic to your current stroll down Memory Lane, love, but there’s a deal on the table,” Eamon said. “And you know how much I like to close deals.”

Some dark, velvet tone of amusement in that made me put the picture down and turn to look at him. I hadn’t, right? Oh, tell me I hadn’t slept with my sister’s skanky, possibly homicidal boyfriend.

Man, I was changing my ways if that was the case. Possibly joining a nunnery.

“You show me where you want the weather changed,” I said, “and I’ll make it happen.”

He smiled slowly. “I know you will. Because you’re not stupid enough to double-cross me twice.”

I wasn’t too surprised to find that while Eamon and I had been trading threats and barely concealed attacks, Sarah had taken the opportunity of self-medicating herself into oblivion. Not surprised, but sad. I found out what her poison of choice was, because it was in plain sight on the nightstand…an orange-brown prescription bottle of OxyContin. At least, I thought, it wasn’t meth. But Sarah would have found meth too low class, no doubt. To me, high was high; it didn’t really matter whether you blissed out from prescription drugs or something a toothless wonder cooked up in a pot on his stove. The problem was the same.

I got her out of bed. She opened her eyes, and the pupils were hugely dilated. She yawned as I tossed clothes at her. There were bruises on her arms and legs, and I felt a newly sick sensation bubbling deep in my stomach. Those were not exactly the signs of a loving relationship, but then, what had I really expected? Consideration? Dependent personality , he said, and although I hated him for it, Eamon was right. Sarah had hooked up with a guy who’d treat her like crap, because deep down that was what she expected to get. And maybe he was what she needed to continue eroding her own nonexistent self-worth.

How could two sisters be so damn different?

“Where are we going?” she mumbled. I helped her put on a floral shirt with ruffles down the front; it would have looked like crap on me, but on her it looked fresh and pretty. It offset the haggard lines in her face, anyway. She needed sleep, and not the kind induced by chemicals. And an environment where she could find out just how powerful she could be, if given the chance.

“We’re going on a little trip,” I said. “Sarah, look at me. Look at me. You recognize me, right?”

Her wandering eyes focused on me. I was eerily reminded of Cherise’s time-delayed attention, but this was different; Sarah had at least chosen this. “Of course I know who you are,” Sarah said, and put a hand to my cheek. Her skin felt cool and clammy. “You’re my sister. You’re all I’ve got. Sometimes I hate you, though. But mostly I love you.”

I felt that artlessly cruel statement lodge between my ribs, sharp and cold, and felt tears sting my eyes. I loved her. I had no reason to, but I loved her anyway.

And now I’d made myself responsible for her, and right now I wasn’t sure that was such a great idea… I hardly could take care of myself. But I couldn’t exactly leave her with Eamon.

“That’s right,” I said, and managed a smile. I put my hand over hers, holding it to my cheek. “I love you, too. You and me against the world, Sarah. But I’m going to need your help now.” I reached for the prescription bottle and checked the label. Unless her name was Mabel Thornton, they weren’t her pills. I rattled them in front of her until she focused on them. “You’re going to have to stop taking these.”

She blinked, and then she grabbed for them. I easily pulled them out of reach. “Those are mine!” she said, and set that sharp chin of hers in a hard, stubborn line. “Jo, give them back! I only take them when I need them! I take them for pain!”

Her life was full of that right now, starting with being in a relationship with the asshole in the other room, and ending with the fact she was living in a trailer in Ares, Nevada, with nothing to look forward to but more abuse. But it could all be fixed. It would all be fixed.

“I’ll hang onto them for you,” I said, and slipped them into the pocket of my jeans with a mental promise to ditch them in the first trash can I passed. “Up and at ’em, kid.”

She giggled drunkenly. “I’m not the kid! You’re the kid!”

Not at the moment, I wasn’t.

Getting Sarah dressed was an effort. While she figured out the complexities of pants, I ransacked her closet, shoved what passed for her wardrobe into a bag-Louis Vuitton, evidently a souvenir of better days-and added the few personal touches she had around the trailer. Especially the photographs. I lingered over the one of our mother, and I ached to ask…but I didn’t dare. So far, I thought I’d danced around the subject of memory pretty well with her, but one false move and everything could fall apart.

It was depressingly easy to remove all traces of Sarah from what was supposed to be her home. I supposed it was possible to look on it as freewheeling independence, but it just seemed really creepy as hell. A reminder of just how easily a life could be erased from the world.

Eamon didn’t help, literally or figuratively. When I ushered Sarah back out into the living room and got her sitting on the couch, weaving and blinking, Eamon was finishing off a fresh glass of whiskey. “Ah,” he said with that slow, all-knowing smile. “I see you’re ready.”

“Yes,” I said, and thumped the suitcase down next to the door. “Where are we going?”

“California,” he said. “Land of fruits and nuts, they say. You ought to be right at home.”

I thought, somehow, that Sarah would have looked pleased-after all, pretty much anywhere in California had to be an improvement over the current situation, and she’d talked about living in the same zip code with Mel Gibson. But instead she looked mortified. Scared, even. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to go to California. Jo, why can’t we go back to Florida? I liked Florida. It was nice, and-”

Eamon interrupted as if she hadn’t even opened her mouth. “I suppose you could do this from anywhere, but I’d like to actually be there to see it, if you don’t mind. Not that I don’t trust you, but…well, I don’t trust you.”

“Ditto,” I said grimly. “Oh, and you’re not driving, jerk. Give me the keys.”

“But I don’t want to go to California!” Sarah repeated, half a wail.

“Okay,” I said. “Want to stay here? Alone?”

She looked from me to Eamon, back to me. Eyes wide and still medically dilated.

And she burst into an addict’s helpless tears.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I said, and got her under the arm to help her up. “So let’s get moving.”

The instant I banged open the rickety front door of the trailer and stepped down onto the cinder-block steps, Louis Vuitton suitcase in hand, I knew something was wrong out there. There was a sense of stillness, of the world not quite breathing. No birds in the sky, no wind. It was the weightless moment before the ground crumbles under your feet, and you fall, screaming.