SOMETHING IS WRONG.

I can feel it. But what? 

I sit in class, think — something feels wrong. 

My teacher’s voice echoes in the back of my mind as I stare at my phone. Waiting for the notification. 

“What is wrong with me?” I whisper.

The phone lights up. My watch vibrates. I watch the teacher, careful to not be seen.

I reach down into my new grey Adidas backpack. 

I read the message over and over and over again. Until it’s the only thing in my mind. 

Grace is in the hospital. 

+++++++

Ring. 

Ring. 

Ring. 

“Hello?” My mother’s voice answers — and I freeze. “Emmi,” My mother tries again, “Emmi, are you there?”

But I sit at my kitchen table, staring at my grandmother, my voice faltering, tears welling in my eyes as I ask, “What happened?” 

“Your sister’s heart rate dropped into the low 40’s,” my mother says, her words hushed. “She was sent home from school and when we got home, she passed out.” 

I’m the least of my mom’s problems. 

Why am I calling her when she’s busy with Grace?

Grace, my older sister by birth. Younger sister by heart. 

Grace, my special-needs sister. 

Grace, my sister who’s never a burden. Never for me. 

But what is a burden for me? How prone to sickness she is. The way her body can’t keep up the way mine does. 

The way her body tries to fight the sickness, but it takes its toll on her.  

The way I can’t help her because there’s nothing I can do. 

There’s nothing I can do and it kills me.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair she has to struggle more than she already does. 

My mom’s voice jerks me back to the call.

“I’ll call you later. Sorry for bothering you mom.” I hang up — not wanting to hear another second of it. Not wanting to endure the pain.

I grab my turkey and lettuce sandwich off the paper plate, my potato chips sticking to the now soggy bread, and stare at my grandmother.

“What if she doesn’t make it, Memay?” I ask.

And Memay shakes her head. “Honey, your sister is strong.” She pauses as if I’m not the only one needing convincing. “We’ve just got to have faith.” 

I stare at her. But how can I have faith when my sister lays in a scratchy hospital bed, in a scratchy gown, scared for her life? Not able to understand what’s happening. 

But I say none of this out loud.

Ding.

I look down at my phone vibrating on the table.

“Is that your mom?” Memay asks and I nod. With shaking hands, I reach for the phone. 

“It’s a photo,” I say and open it for us to see.

It’s Gracie. Pale face. Clammy skin. A sad look in her eyes.

It breaks something in my chest. 

Never again do I want to see her hurting. Never again do I want to see the light in my sister’s eyes gone. 

Never again do I want to see those beautiful freckles disappear from her face. 

+++++++

She’s home. 

But is she really? 

What if we just got lucky? What if it happens again? Wait, why did this happen? 

I watch as Gracie walks in the door, white hospital band around her thin wrist, her freckled-covered body pale, her freckles now faint against her fair skin. Her fiery hair dimmer.   

“What if it happens again, Mom?” I ask as she stays close behind Gracie, my dad on her heels. Gracie’s red hospital bag on his arm, purple eyebags, camo Dallas Mavericks hat. 

But the light seems duller in his eyes, too. 

Are we all like that? 

Gracie gags — and I cover my ears. 

I hate gagging.

Is she going to be sick?

Mom and Dad — throw-up bag in hand — are a blur of movement. Gram — my dad’s mother — rushes by. Shoving me directly into the wall before I get to Grace. 

The painting shifts and rattles. 

Why did she push me? 

I want to get to my sister. She’s MY SISTER. But I can’t tell my grandmother that. 

I rub my shoulder where her diamond ring dug into the bare skin of my arm. 

Is this how it’ll be for the next few days? 

But I still can’t get past a constant, nagging thought. 

What if it happens again?

++++

Six months later. It does.