Chapter 13: : Chapter 12

I replay every moment in my mind on the drive home. The way Micah looked at me—

me. The way my body buzzed standing next to him, overlooking our art. The way it’s still buzzing now. And perhaps the most incredible part, how for a brief moment, the monsters shut up.

But the thoughts of Micah and the beach cut off abruptly when I see Dad on the porch, pacing, one hand gripping his phone, the other raking through his hair.

“It’s Alice,” he says. The buzzing in my veins gives way to ice. “I told her to be home by eight. But she’s not answering her phone.”

Dad’s trying not to panic for my benefit but is failing miserably. My monsters return with a vengeance.

herself Staci’s face is lined with worry as she puts her hand on Dad’s shoulder, tells him to come inside. “She’s out with friends. I’m sure she’s fine.”

Dad shakes his head as his call goes to voicemail. “She could be anywhere. Doing ”

His voice falters on the and I have to go upstairs to escape the look on his face, the worry he usually hides.

In my room, I text Alice a short plea: Please call. Dad’s scared.

I check the box under my bed. All blades present and accounted for.

“What are you doing?” Margot’s voice makes me jump guiltily.

“Just cleaning up.” I shove the box back to its hiding spot. Margot has traded her wizard getup for her pajamas that make her look way younger than ten because they’re about six inches too short and feature some sort of unicorn monstrosity. Her eyes are pink and brimming with worry.

“Do you think she’s okay?”

I nod, trying to be reassuring, but Dad’s rings in my head.

“You should be getting to bed,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Not until Alice is back.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her Alice doesn’t seem to be coming back—now or ever. She jumps into my bed and curls into my side next to the history textbook I should be studying.

“Where do you think she is?”

“Honestly, Margs, I don’t know.”

She snuggles closer. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t really know that, either. But seriously. Sleep. Now.”

Margot sighs. I’m clearly failing her on the big-sister front.

“But it’s not, like, contagious, right? Like, we won’t get it?”

While she talks, she bites the fingernail on her ring finger.

“It’s not the flu,” I say, swatting her hand away from her mouth. “It’s in her head.”

“So it’s not real?”

“No, it’s real. But it’s like her brain is…” I pause, searching for the right word.

Not quite right.

Still feels wrong. It’s not like Alice has worms eating through her frontal lobe. I think through all the definitions and WebMD entries I’ve read about bipolar disorder since her official diagnosis. Basically, she swings wildly between manic highs and depressed lows. Looking back, I guess the ups and downs have always been there, but that was just Alice. She could be moody, unpredictable, but what teenager isn’t? And she’d always swing back again—until she didn’t. “I think—I think it’s more like her brain isn’t working the way it used to.”

Margot nods thoughtfully, her body toasty warm next to me, snuggled up tight just like Alice and I used to do. Within three minutes, she’s out, her chest heaving up and down rhythmically.

I text Alice again—no answer—and even turn to the 100-acre-wood.

There’s so much else I want to say to Micah—about the beach, about how my mind felt free for the first time in months—but the moment has passed. Like always, Alice has eclipsed anything and everyone else. She’s always been the center of whatever room she enters, like a supernova, all light and sparkle and energy. But here’s the thing about explosions—bombs or supernovas or really anything that erupts in a startling display of grandeur and light: when they’re done, and the fire has all burned out and the show is over, they always leave a hole.

So we’re all here, standing on the edge of the Alice-shaped chasm, all our gravity still pointing to her. And even though I feel like I might vomit at the thought of something bad happening to her, I kind of hate her for it.

Almost midnight, and still no Alice. Margot’s zonked out beside me, and the words of my history book blur, and Dad’s footsteps fall up and down the front hallway in a steady, nervous rhythm. I absentmindedly pick at the tiny scabs by my eyebrows, crusty reminders of my too-deep excavation the other night.

But my mind starts spinning and my fingers start picking because somehow it helps calm me, keeps me from having a full-on meltdown again. So I slide my hand to my waist instead and find a small bump. A hair follicle maybe. Or a scab. A piece of not-quite-perfect skin.

I pick it off.

I find a fresh one and pick that, too. Then another.

And for a moment, my brain resets. My body unclenches. Before long, blood coats my fingertips.

I need to clear my head.

What I need is a run. A run like before my brain started short-circuiting, when the beat of my feet and my heart were my safe space.

space.

I slip my hand out from under Margot’s head and tie on my running shoes. Downstairs, Dad’s sitting at his desk, rubbing the back of his neck, his face wan, his shoulders slumped low. He looks so different from the superhero Dad of my childhood—strong and capable with all the right answers and a kiss that could make all the owies go away.

But now he has the same expression as on the Night of the Bathroom Floor—helpless.

I don’t want to bother him, so I tell Staci I’m just doing my regular route around the neighborhood. She looks almost as lost as Dad when she glances up from the phone she’s staring at like she can will Alice to call. She nods absentmindedly, and I slip out.

My feet hit the pavement in a familiar rhythm. One foot in front of the other. Thud-thud-thud. Just me and the breath pushing in and out of my lungs. A nighttime rain has wet the streets, and I inhale the sweet scent of the jasmine bushes as I breathe deeply, trying to calm my body, my mind. I’ve run this neighborhood so many times, I know all the twists and turns by heart.

Before I can stop it, my mind shoots back.

It’s January, and the night is cool, and I’ve been trying to hit regional qualifying times.

After, her blood on my hands.

she says.

I’m helpless.

Worthless.

I make her bed. Sixteen times.

Back in the present, the memories flash, fast and furious and fresh. My heart gallops ahead of me. My lungs reach for air. The all-too-familiar wave shivers down my arms to my fingertips, grips my throat.

I turn back the way I came, hoping to get home before a full-on episode strikes. That’s the last thing Dad needs tonight. I reach my house, still on edge, and dip my head down to stop the wooziness.

I stealth in the front door. A voice fills the house.

Alice.

My body deflates with relief—she’s here.

And she’s yelling. Words tumbling out, angry and pointed. “I’m eighteen. You’re treating me like a child!” She keeps going, saying she’s done with therapy. How it’s not working. How none of this is working.

Staci and Dad try to talk her down, try to convince her that it working, that it’s just going to take time. They don’t even sound like they’re convincing themselves.

I tiptoe up the stairs and close my door to block out the sharp sounds. Margot has switched from my bed to Alice’s. An hour later, when the voices have settled and Alice finally comes in, she looks from our little sister to me.

“What’s this?”

“She’s been doing it since you left,” I say. “Gets scared in her own room.”

Margot wakes slightly when Alice shifts her over.

“You’re home,” Margot says, reaching up to pull Alice down by the neck. “I was so worried.”

“I’m home,” Alice whispers, and re-tucks Margot. She doesn’t even change into pajamas before sliding into bed. She turns to me in the dark, her short, un-Alice curly hair backlit by the streetlights through the window. Even though I can barely see her, I can tell she’s looking at me—like, looking at me—which is two parts unsettling and one part nostalgic.

“I didn’t mean to scare everyone.” Alice’s voice is small and tight. “It’s just, sometimes, I can’t breathe here, you know?”

I almost say it, too.

But someone has to hold this family together.

nullaspire (n) The feeling of not getting enough air. Your chest is moving. Lungs inflating. But you’re still left gasping for breath, wondering if you’ve ever truly inhaled.

From Latin (none) +

(to breathe)