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In your arms, it is difficult to see Amber as anything more than bones. And even her bones are feather-light, each of them hollowed of life. You’d be panicking, if you weren’t so furious—and you cling onto that fury because you can’t freeze up now, not now.
Her head lolls over into the crook of your elbow, opening her mouth in a small “o.” Her teeth—you remember reading something once about bulimics having stained or eroded teeth from the continuous wash of stomach acid. Something about binging, something about purging, something that you had only skimmed because you’d hoped its informational contents were something you would never have to actually know.
Pearly white. The slightest smudge of lipstick.
You want to grab her by her shoulders and scream. Sometimes, you don’t understand her at all.
Let me see... I know how to fence and you don't?
Li is lying on your bed, staring at her phone. Charlotte, sitting next to you on the floor, pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth.
Or, I have class and you don't? Take your pick.
You’re not really watching the movie. It’s kind of old, and it shows.
“You know, you and Nathaniel don’t really seem like twins,” says Charlotte, absently, her eyes still glued to the screen.
Usually it’s Li who says the stupid things. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you squawk.
Charlotte continues watching two identical ten-year-olds, each dressed in fencing gear, bicker over being twins, presumably. You think one of them might have a British accent, or at least a child actor’s best approximation of one.
“I mean, they look related.” Li drapes herself upside-down over the side of your bed, turning to peer more closely at your profile. You smack her in the face and she yelps.
“It’s like,” says Charlotte, “you’re not that close.” She motions vaguely around her head and gives you a sideways glance. “You’re never together, you never talk. None of that twin telepathy stuff.”
Bitch. “That stuff’s not real.”
“Nathaniel’s always tried to act like he’s older, I guess,” concedes Li, now sitting up on her knees, just out of smacking range. Her eyes go wide. “Which is so boring of him! And wrong. And, uh, he’s not! Older, I mean. Obviously.”
Charlotte finally looks away from the movie entirely. She doesn’t say anything else, and instead fixes you with her dead-eyed stare and her head cocked to the side. Judgement, or an implicit “why?” hangs in the air. It feels like a challenge.
You’re not sure why she’s trying to pick a fight like this. She doesn’t know anything.
You start to sneer back on reflex, but Li chooses now of all times to shut up, and beneath your anger you feel a small, stupid spark of paranoia flare up. Completely irrational, but your brain whispers to you anyway what she might be implying, but she can’t know—it’s impossible. There are a thousand more likely possibilities of what is going through her head at this moment, and you know she doesn’t know. She doesn't. You will yourself to speak, but your throat dries up; expression frozen, you scan about your bedroom for any sign that might have betrayed you.
It’s like your parents say: some things stay in the family.
You’re not even sure what you’re looking for—shattered glass, a monster under your bed, or blood, not that there’s been any, yet—but a third scan confirms again there is nothing, of course, so you manage to curl your lip as you first intended. Your voice sickly sweet, you unearth a different sneaking suspicion in retaliation: “Oh, Charlotte. If you're trying to—sorry, no, Nath doesn’t like like you.”
She flushes a rosy pink, and you are as stupidly relieved as you are annoyed.
After graduating high school, there’s no reason for you to see Amber regularly. And emancipated, living away from home, sometimes you don’t think of Amber at all, for days.
You feel guilty about that.
You catch glimpses of her on the Anteros campus, but you’ve been avoiding her calls. And she doesn’t call that often these days, anyway.
You felt responsible for checking on her, once. A week after your emancipation, after the initial shock wore off, you always kept her floating somewhere in the corner of your vision, almost out fear of looking head on; afraid that the bruises starting to fade from your back would find their way to her skin, like the passing of some kind of awful inheritance.
(On your worst days, you are something other than relieved to see her unscathed. You can't name it, that emotion—you won't.)
There isn’t anything obvious, and you aren’t sure you can work up the courage to look for anything better hidden. Amber gives you no reason for suspicion, and you are all too eager to stop searching for signs of your father in every shadow. Your past can be just that—past, forgotten. It starts to feel like you could be free.
And you feel guilty about that.
Really, you do.
Nathaniel is an idiot, you think, half in fear and half in awe.
Even through your closed door, you can hear your dad’s screaming. You can’t hear Nathaniel’s retorts any more, and you know it is only through his sheer stubbornness that each of the pauses in your dad’s tirade aren’t punctuated by his own tearful cries.
Stupidity, disobedience, and shame: despite yourself, your morbidly curious ears still pick up the occasional phrase. You scrunch your eyes shut and are so, so nauseatingly thankful to be a girl. A pretty, untouchable thing; and you know how to be that, even if Nathaniel doesn’t.
You and Nathaniel couldn’t be less alike. Thank god, thank god, thank god.
There is still a framed photo of your whole family together, sitting on the coffee table. You and Amber stand in front of your parents, shoulder-to-shoulder, and appear to be smiling wide in matching white outfits, even though you remember the fifteen minutes of wheedling the photographer spent to get the two of you to tolerate that level of proximity to each other, and the thirty minutes before that your mother spent convincing Amber to wear that dress, all to create that picture-perfect moment and freeze it in time.
You think you were ten in that photo, maybe. Or twelve—you’re not sure, but in it your father, mother, and Amber look so strangely young and unfamiliar.
“Here.”
Your mother reappears in the doorframe, eggshell white envelope in hand.
“Oh, Mom, you don’t… you don’t have to.”
“Nonsense,” she says, her tone clipped. “Happy belated birthday, Nathaniel.”
She pries open your fist and slides the envelope into your hand. You don’t want to use any more of your strength to resist her; there is something scarily frail in the ever more prominent bones of her wrists and neck. “…Thanks.”
She lightly clasps your hand and gives it a single shake. She gathers her shawl tighter around herself, and her eyes dart to the side. You know she is checking the clock.
Your father could return home at any minute. He shouldn’t, for at least another few hours, but her undercurrent of anxiety feeds into yours. Every time you have to return to this house, it’s too soon.
Unfortunately, you haven't been able to shake that lingering sense of duty calling you back.
“That’s not why I came here though, today.”
She pulls the shawl in even closer. “What is it?”
“It's about Amber.” Her eyes narrow, but you press on anyway. “I’ve heard from people at Anteros that she fainted again last week.”
“You don’t need to worry about your sister.” Her gaze is steely, as if protective—as if she thinks she’s protecting Amber from you.
You could almost laugh, except it’s not funny at all. You take a deep breath: keep going, just like how you rehearsed. “Mom, what you’re doing to her is insane. Amber trusts you, and you know she’d never tell you she can’t handle it if you push her.”
“Stop sticking your nose in other people’s business, Nathaniel. It’s a nasty habit that you’ve picked up.”
Instantly, you’re as frustrated and enraged as you felt as a child, trapped under this roof.
“You’re going to kill her like this.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“You’re hurting her!” Somehow, she appears unmoved. Dismissive, even. You feel sick when your hands itch with the desire to physically shake sense into her; you force yourself to channel all your venom into your voice, instead. “If you were any kind of parent, you’d never do this.”
That, causes her expression to darken. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Careful, warns that voice in your brain. You bite your tongue this time.
“If Amber wants to tell me she can’t handle being a model, she can tell me herself.” She straightens, haughtily. “She’s an adult.”
“She should be able to pursue modeling without getting repeatedly hospitalized for an eating disorder,” you hiss back.
Your mother swells with righteous fury.
“Oh? And what would you know about eating disorders, Nathaniel?” Briefly, her voice goes shrill. “Because self-discipline is a disorder now, really? Because nothing anyone in this house did was enough for you—because that was all abuse?”
You feel like you’ve been slapped.
“Amber is not like you,” she says, cold and composed again, and you feel every bit the bleeding, open wound you thought you had long since closed. But even as your mother’s words sting, you’re furious at yourself, more than anything—for allowing yourself to be hurt, for still nursing a naïve hope in some small corner of your heart, all this time, that your mother didn’t hate you, didn’t blame you, and could be on your side—that underneath her ever-frosty poise, she might even still love you.
All of your most awful words—I hate you —and painful truths—you hurt me —rise on your tongue, but you know they are too ragged and discolored with emotion. It will strip you bare to say them, and you are afraid to see them mean nothing to her at all.
Concede: it's not as though you even disagree. Bitterly, you grit out, “No.”
Her jaw tightens, but the corner of her mouth curves upwards knowingly.
“Well, enough. Tantrum over. Is that all then, Nathaniel?”
A second wind of rage blows through your sails. You can barely breathe; you have to hurt her back, somehow, for how callously she is digging her nails into all the spots she knows to be your weakest. And for a million other reasons, from habit, to fear, to blood, you can’t touch her in retaliation. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, and that contradiction only further tears your thoughts apart.
You slam the envelope onto the table. “I don’t need your fucking money.”
She at least has the decency to appear mildly shocked at first; but all too quickly, it morphs into pity. Look at you, floundering, only able to hurt yourself.
You could scream.
Instead, you bolt out of that house. You’ll never go back again, you comfort yourself, holding onto your own shoulders. Never again, and not for anyone.
For the first time in a while, your apartment when you return feels empty.
You could throw up. You’ve been sick with worry for so long, the sight of Nathaniel and his now-green hair should be a relief; but between his insane story and the clear wire running across his torso, marking him as bait—when he says with stubborn certainty that this is his only path to redemption, you feel the strength that had been powering you through what even you can admit was a manic two weeks of stirring up help, it all evaporates.
You wobble on your feet, and grip the counter for balance. You can't even find the energy to be angry.
Nathaniel has always been too brave, or too stupid for his own good. You watch Lynn wish him luck and send him off with her voice trembling with fear, but a brave smile on her face. Despite everything, she believes that in end, he will be okay.
You’re not so sure. You’ve seen him small and silent, curled up on the ground in the aftermath. Undeniably a child; all the times before when he almost didn’t get back up.
And still, he’s going to leave, again.
You wish you could tell him: ask me for help. Please, rely on me, this once. But—
You could throw up. You feel sick. Even as you think to reach out a hand to him, your body shivers its weakness, and you tip back over into self-disgust; some days, the careful control you maintain over your body is your greatest pride and weapon. As your mom says, with her lacquered nails digging into your shoulder: hunger sharpens.
Now, however, you feel completely sapped, and you feel powerless to stop him from risking his life.
You are weak, so weak. It’s all you can do just to not faint right then and there, heavy on Nathaniel’s shoulders, weighing him down even more.
You don’t do that, of course. You carry her ragdoll-limp body with utmost care, aimlessly at first, circling around the downtown streets. A cold sweat sticks your shirt to your back. Counting down the seconds: she has to wake, now, or now, or—now! You’ll have to call an ambulance in another ten seconds, thirty, forty, another ten. You bargain long enough, that she finally begins to stir—and you can finally race towards your apartment.
She lies on the couch as you scramble for the apples you always keep in the fridge. You put out the other foods you know she’ll refuse, anyway, because you still can’t help but hope.
With a scratchy groan, Amber sits up, and accepts a glass of water.
“Thanks.”
She sounds sheepish. Your chest tightens and you momentarily find it hard to breathe; you are overwhelmed with the feeling of being in deeply over your head.
“Yeah.”
Unsaid: all the reasons, rational and emotional and everything else, for why she should stop. The fact that you know she can’t—not with only your help, at least. You want to tell her, she can’t kill herself for this: that they’re sick, that nothing will ever be enough for them, that she will never be able make them happy.
You’re afraid she’ll say that she can—and that she will.
“Sorry,” she says. “It won’t—it won’t happen again.”
Mechanically, you nod. Of course.
“Thanks, Nath,” she says again, more quietly. “Really.”
She draws you into a bony hug, and you awkwardly pat her on the back. In the ensuing silence, you try to say sorry, but can’t quite seem to get the words out.