Sure, Grandma Margaret told me that Mama had gone to Jesus (or, if she’d been drinking, gone to hell), but I believed back then that if I just wanted it hard enough, she might come back for me anyway.
When I first saw my sister, I thought about running to the bottom of the staircase, calling for Aggie or Grandma Margaret, but I was afraid that if I took my eyes off her she would disappear.
So, instead, I stood on the bed, unlatched the window, and climbed out. It was summer, and the ground felt cool beneath my feet. Crickets thrummed. Fireflies floated up from the grass like shooting stars in reverse.
My sister stood very still, watching me, as I walked toward her. She didn’t smile, didn’t respond to my “Hi.” When I reached out to touch her she flinched.
I asked her a thousand questions, that first night. Where did she come from? What was her name? Was her favorite color the same as mine? She didn’t answer, just stared at me, and I worried that maybe she couldn’t talk, but when I asked if she was hungry, she said yes, and when I asked if she wanted to come inside, she said no, and when I asked if I should go get Aggie to make us some food, her eyes went very wide and she turned around and ran back into the woods.
The next night, I climbed out my window again and I waited at the edge of the yard and sure enough, she came back. I gave her half a bag of Skittles I had saved for her and she took my hand and led me into the trees.
I didn’t think it was so strange at first, to have a secret sister. I’d sneak out at night, spend a few hours with her, sneak back in. Sometimes I’d bring toys out to the forest, sometimes we’d just chase each other or play hide-and-seek. When Aggie and Margaret noticed the scratches on my legs, the mud between my toes, they thought I was sleepwalking. They bolted guardrails to my bed, fed me hot milk with whiskey. When I said I had a sister, they told me not to be silly.
When I said, No, really I do, she comes to see me at night, Aggie told me not to talk about sisters to her, that I didn’t know what it felt like to have your heart ripped in two and I was lucky I never would.
Grandma Margaret told me lying was a sin and did I know what happens to sinners? I did, of course, because she told me every chance she got. God struck them down in their tracks and sent them straight to hell.
Do you know how hot it gets in hell? she asked me once. When I shrugged she took me by the wrist and dragged me to the kitchen. She switched on one of the stovetop gas burners and pulled my hand closer and closer, until I felt the heat, until the edges of the flames licked my fingers and I shrieked and Aggie came running from the other room. The two of them shouted at each other and I slunk away to my bedroom and pressed my throbbing fingers to the cold glass of the window by my bed, wishing my sister would come and take me away.
Eventually I realized.
It is strange. She is strange.
Nearly everyone in town knows the story of Brandon bringing me to Grandma Margaret. They differ on the specifics. Dawn. Midnight. His coat covered in blood or not a drop of blood on him. A wicked smile on his face or a look of terror.
But nobody has ever said a thing about another baby. On this detail, everyone agrees. Brandon brought one bundle that day. One baby.
The police could never get much out of him. He changed his story each time they asked him. Sometimes he said strange things, about devils or aliens. No one could agree on whether he was crazy or just a liar, but as far as I know he never mentioned another baby.
The best I can figure it is that the Cantrells kept my sister, hid her from the police somehow during the investigation into Mama’s disappearance. I’ve asked Lee about it many times, but she won’t tell me. Did Logan and Brandon raise you? I’ll say, and she’ll shake her head or shrug or ignore me. Who raised you? I’ll say, and she’ll point to a tree or a rock or a dead squirrel caught in one of her wire traps, just to fuck with me. If I keep asking, she’ll clam up for the rest of the night. I tried to trick her once, told her I’d heard Logan was out of jail and on his way home, just to see if she’d react. But it was no use. She could tell I was lying. She’s pretty much the only person in my whole life who I can’t lie to. I half believe she can smell it.
I suspect her early years were rough. Maybe really rough, and that’s why she won’t talk about them. All I know is this: by five, my sister was already terrified of people. She was terrified of being seen, of being caught. She told me that people were bad, that they wanted to hurt her. She made me promise not to tell anyone about her. I tried to convince her that some people were okay. I told her about Savannah, about Aggie. I’d point at characters in the picture books I brought her, say, They don’t seem so bad, right? Sometimes, I tried to make her come inside with me. I thought if she could just once sleep in a bed, take a bath, eat a bowl of mac ’n’ cheese, then maybe she would transform into a normal girl. We could be normal sisters.
But it made no difference. If I pushed her too hard, she’d stop coming around for a week or two. I would cry every night, sure I’d lost her for good. Eventually I stopped trying. To this day, my sister believes that everyone other than the two of us is evil. She has made me promise over and over that I will never let them see her, never let them get her.
* * *
—
Which is why I don’t understand.
On the bridge.
My sister. Henry.
He saw her. She let herself be seen.
Her hands are on his neck. He must have hit his head when he fell. He’s not moving. She is leaning her face down to his neck.
I think again that she is going to kiss him. I don’t understand.
I step forward and throw myself against my sister. Just fall on her, really. Knock her sideways. We tumble, roll. She tries to hit me. I get my arms around her, hold tight. We could just be wrestling. Playing like we did as kids. Lee kicks wildly. Her foot clangs off the bridge railing. Her elbow stabs into my ribs.
I hear Savannah’s voice in the distance, shouting my name.
Lee jerks her head forward and pain explodes through my left wrist.
I cry out, let go.
In an instant, she is up and running. I point the flashlight in time to see her disappear into the trees, a tail of torn lace trailing in the dirt.
I swing the flashlight down. Lee’s teeth left two arcs of indents on my wrist, some of them already filling with blood.
And Henry. There’s blood on his neck. I drop to my knees beside him.
“Jo?” Savannah says again, much closer this time.
Henry isn’t moving. His eyes are closed. I touch his neck. Try to wipe the blood away. I can feel a pulse hammering under my fingers, as fast as mine. His neck isn’t broken. Maybe she was trying to tear out his windpipe with her teeth. I’ve seen her do that with rabbits. But humans have bigger necks than rabbits. She’s not that strong, is she? And I got there in time. Her teeth only broke the skin a little. She didn’t hit an artery.