My Life, As Related to My Sister

A Story by amaile

A senior in high school struggles to balance wanting her own autonomy and future and the responsibility she has in caring for her sister, who has a disability that needs around the clock care.

“Love, could you watch Liz for a few? I need to run to the grocery store.” Without waiting to see if I was even okay with this, my mother plants a kiss on top of my head and leaves.

I don’t quite hear it this time, but I can almost certainly guess what she is mumbling under her breath as she locks up. You’re a saint, Finn, a god given saint. A phrase that constantly bounces around the walls of our cluttered house.

I bury my head in my hands and count to three. Once again, it is all too clear that my future revolves around one thing: my little sister.

My laptop lid closes a little bit too hard as I hop out of my chair to grab Liz’s iPad. The chair scrapes against the already scuffed wood floor. I was tired of those college applications anyway.

Liz is sitting, per usual, in her corner of the house. Her gaze is fixated on the television as she runs her fingers aimlessly through the fluffy pink rug. The color coded baskets of toys, fidgets, and books are untouched, pushed against the walls adjacent to the TV stand.

It reminds me of a photograph, everything pristine and in the same exact place as the day before. The only part of our house not tainted with the chaos of living.

The curtain rings clatter together as I pull the curtains open, allowing pink light to float through the mesh cover Mom and I painted. Liz barely looks up, but eventually grabs the iPad I’m dangling in front of her face.

“Come on, Bitsy. You know the rules.” I crouch down to get to her eye level and put a smile on my face. “Ten o’clock so we get ready now!”

Liz mumbles something, her brow furrowing as she touches her hair that is matted from the night before.

“Use your talker, what do you want to do first?” I pause for a second, settling into a more comfortable position on the floor.

“Park.” Liz looks up hopefully.

“We can’t go to the park now, maybe later. First, we have to get ready.”

“Park. Park. Park. Par-park.” Even the robot voice cannot keep up with the speed Liz is pressing her favourite button.

“Brush or clothes?” I prompt, holding the shirt she picked out last night in one hand and the brush in the other.

Liz pats the hand that has her shirt in it. I reach for the rest of her clothes as Liz arches her back and yawns, nose scrunched up and eyes squeezed closed. We both stand up, but Liz just shoves her talker into my hands and takes the clothes.

“I do.” Liz points to her chest as she carefully enunciates each syllable.

“What do you mean?” I rub my eyes. This was going to be a long morning. Her brows furrow again and she crosses her arms around the bundle of clothes.

“You. Stay.”

“Okay, okay. You go get ready on your own. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

Liz nods, apparently satisfied with the arrangement. Leaving me and her talker behind, she turns on her heel and goes into the bathroom.

The kitchen is near enough where I feel comfortable leaving her until she comes out. I prop her talker up at the table and pre-set the section to ‘Breakfast Foods’. Hopefully this way, we don’t get stuck in another park loop.

Liz bounces towards the table and wraps her arms around my waist, giving me our good morning hug.

“Love you too, Bitsy.” I rest my hand on top of her head for a moment and then brush the stray strands of hair out of her face. “Let’s choose what we want for breakfast. I’m eating some toast and an orange.”

She perches on the chair in front of her talker, tongue barely sticking out of the side of her mouth as she scrolls through the options.

“Juice. Apple. Juice.”

“How about some cereal or toast too?” I ask, crouching to get a cup for her apple juice from the cupboard.

“Want. Cereal.” Her feet are tapping against the counter in a steady rhythm. She opens up the cereal box and pours it in her precise manner, making sure nothing escapes the faulty plastic bag into the bottom of the cardboard box.

“Looks like you got it figured out. I’m going to brush your hair while you eat, OK?”

By the time Mom returns from the store, breakfast has been cleaned up and Liz’s hair has been sorted out. For a Saturday morning, this is pretty good.

Arguably, her hair is the most difficult part of our morning routine. Adding onto the fact that it is a much different texture than Mom and I’s, Liz also has this goal of getting her hair to look like Rapunzel’s. If Rapunzel had bubblegum pink hair.

“Any plans for today?” Mom leans against the countertop opposite of where Liz and I are sitting.

“I was thinking of going to the library for a bit. I need to look at some of the scholarship programs my counsellor recommended.”

“That sounds fun! Bitsy and I might tag along, she’s been talking about the park all day and there’s one right by the library.” Liz squeals and claps her hands.

“Okay.” I run my finger along the engraved pattern on the plate I was eating off of. I wish that they wouldn’t come, but at least Mom’s taking her and I don’t have to alone.

“We can get coffee afterwards! You’ve been wanting to try that new cafe right?”

“Yeah, sure.” I don’t even know when I would have mentioned that. I’m always impressed when she remembers little things like that, given all of the work and stress that comes with managing our house as a single parent and taking care of Liz.

…

The park was technically within walking distance, but it was more practical for us to take the car in case Liz shuts down. I mean, it’s also plausible that I might have a breakdown looking at college brochures. You never know.

Liz runs down the path away from the parking lot, hair trailing behind her. By the time Mom and I have caught up, Liz has halted on the edge of the mulch. Breathing heavily, she puts her hands on her hips and surveys the scene before her. On the playground, there are toddlers clutching the arms of their parents as they test out walking on new surfaces. Some kindergarteners I recognize from church are racing around the field behind the sandpit.

“What do you think, love? Do you want to go join their game?” My mom asks Liz. Liz shakes her head, her shoulders drooping as her smile falls. I think it’s hard for her, never seeing kids her own age here. But it might be harder for Mom, though, who takes her to the park almost every weekend only to see Liz’s hopes getting crushed again and again.

I tap Liz’s shoulder.

“It looks like the swings are open!” I point. It was her favourite thing to do at the park, she never tired of the soothing back and forth motion of a swing. Or maybe the thrill of being weightless. I’ve never asked.

While she swings, we find ourselves sitting on one of the benches set beneath the oak trees. I am picking up the stray, forgotten leaves off of the seat and tossing them down onto the damp soil. It is almost as satisfying as watching Liz swing. Mom’s eyes are fixed there now, the wind tossing her flyaways every which way.

“You can head into the library, you know.” Mom turns her head towards me.

“I think I’ll stay for a bit. It’s nice outside.” It’s nice being with you, is what I’m trying to find the words to say. The mom sitting in front of me is different from the one I usually see. Her shoulders aren’t tense and she has one arm loosely draped around my shoulders. She’s smiling softly as she watches Liz.

I dig the camera out of my bag and hold it up, adjusting the settings until her face is in focus and the trees in the background are fuzzy. Complementary, but not the subject of the photo.

“What are you doing?” She raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m in sweatpants and a pajama shirt!”

“No, no. Just go back to watching Liz.” She doesn’t return to being completely at ease, but she’s laughing now and I think I catch a few good shots. Maybe even better than what I had originally intended.

“Go work on your college stuff. We’ll catch up in a bit.” We’re both still laughing as I walk away. I wish I could keep these moments in my pocket forever. Bitsy, hair billowing around her face at the peak of the swing. Mom, batting away my camera as her smile overtakes any momentary stoicism.

…

Remnants of the crisp autumn day are still hovering inside, in the way that the sunlight floats through the window and illuminates the dust particles drifting into the air and coating the keyboard.

The chair creaks loudly each time I rotate it around its axis. The only redeeming feature in this room is, in fact, the spinny chairs. Even the sound of the spacebar clicking repetitively as I get impatient with the loading search engine isn’t as satisfactory as spinning in circles on a questionably rickety chair.

I scroll through websites, some who clearly listened to their creative arts departments and others who definitely did not. None of the scholarships were piquing my interest. Of course, I had already applied to all of the basic academic ones, but I was really hoping to find some sort of art-based scholarship that I could actually win.

Not even twenty minutes after I got settled, my phone rang. It was my mom.

“Hey, would you be able to meet us out in the car? Liz is kind of upset and we should get home so she can recharge.” Over Mom’s strained voice, I can make out Liz shouting in the background.

“Yep. I’ll be out.” This was nice while it lasted, I guess.

“You’re a saint, Finn.” I click hang up.

By the time I’m seated in the passenger seat, silent, Liz’s tears have subsided into occasional hiccups. I stare at the cracked iPad that was sitting in my lap. Apparently, Liz had gotten super agitated and thrown her talker down the stairs leading up to the library.

“We’ll get you coffee another day.” My mom promises, the ‘I’m sorry’ woven beneath the words.

“I wish it was just about the coffee, Mom.” I blurt, clapping my hand over my mouth as the words register. Silence settles between us like a heavy blanket. Now the shadows that had been concealed by the sun earlier are all too evident underneath her eyes. Why did I have to say that?

“I got a brochure for you.” My mom breaks the silence as the car rolls into our crooked driveway.

“Thanks.” It’s another brochure for the community college down the street. I’m trying so desperately hard to see it through her eyes. Bitsy, who’s getting ready to be a highschool freshman. Me, trying to get accepted into a good university. Wanting to keep us all close for as long as possible.

But all I can think about is how much I want a different life, even if it’s just for a couple of years. The last thing I want is to be stuck here, where the only thing I’m known for is having a sister with a disability.

There is a new kind of tiredness that settles over the house as we head our separate directions. Liz wanders off to her little corner and I gather my art supplies to go downstairs to my room. Mom hovers somewhere in between for a second, eventually sitting down next to Liz.

…

Even the bus exhaust that hung in the air couldn’t stop me from grinning as I clutched my poster board and rushed up the porch steps. It had been the day of my presentation in Art, and Mr. Truss very well could have given me the ticket to my future.

I kick off my shoes at the mat and grab my laptop to go downstairs, but my mom’s voice calls from the kitchen.

“Finn, come look at something your sister has to show you!”

In the kitchen, Liz and Mom are seated side to side at our table that was presently covered in old newspapers. Soon, I see why. There were smatterings of paint on various papers spread out on the table and a fair amount dried on Liz’s skin.

“Wow, Bitsy. What are you working on?” I shift my poster board under my arm and look over Liz’s shoulder.

“Art. Tree.” Her iPad screen was decorated with some smudged green fingerprints from the acrylic. Liz is still scrolling through the options. “Sister. Same.”

“These are amazing!” I bend down and hug her from behind, leaning slightly to avoid the paintbrush that was teetering dangerously close to my hair.

“My two little artists.” Mom sniffs, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Liz shakes her head vigorously and says something that I don’t quite catch.

“What?” Mom and I speak at the same time. Liz rolls her eyes and opens her talker.

“Big. Strong!”

“Oh.” Mom nods. “You’re right, Bitsy. You guys are my big, strong artists.” Saying this out loud only makes her tear up more.

As to avoid the impending waterworks, I head downstairs. At this point, my room just functioned as a shrine to my art with a bed thrown in the middle. I was running out of room at the minute, so I temporarily prop the poster board against my bed.

I toss my laptop on top of my mattress and flop down beside it. I flip through the brochures Mr. Truss had given to me after class. There was one I was particularly excited about, but I didn’t even know if I was eligible. I stare up at the star stickers on the ceiling, blowing the flyaway strands of hair out of my face. Taking a deep breath, I roll over onto my stomach and flip open my computer.

I type ‘School of the Art institute of Chicago’ into the browser and squint at the directions on the paper. Half a million drop down menus later, I find the webpage I’m looking for.

Students of public, private, and alternative schools across the state of Illinois are eligible to submit a multimedia project into our scholarship competition. Projects must include one or more pieces of each of the following categories: poetry, photography, two dimensional piece (painting, drawing, etc.), and a three dimensional piece (sculpture, functional ceramic, etc.). Prizes will be awarded to the students winning first, second, and third place. Please see below for more information about project submission as well as examples from past winners.

I scroll through the pictures and bios of the art students who won in previous years. From what it looks like it’s a relatively new, albeit competitive, scholarship program. This makes me feel all the better that Mr. Truss not only recommended it to me, but said that my art had a good chance of winning some amount of scholarship money. Each picture I find exploring the school’s website, the more I see myself walking on campus, laughing and talking like the people photographed. I’d always dreamed of going to Chicago to pursue art, but now it might actually be on the table.

The last time I had been to Chicago, it was when Liz was young enough where she wasn’t going to try to run off. Even now, I vividly remember all the smells fighting for recognition as people whizzed by on bikes and scooters. I could only imagine what photographs I could get now if I went back.

…

A knock sounds on my door. My mom pokes her head in.

“What have you been working on for so long?”

“Mr. Truss recommended this scholarship competition to me. He said I might have a good chance of being accepted!” I tilt the screen towards my mom, drumming my fingers on my leg as she looks it over. Her smile freezes on her face.

“You want to move three hours away?”

My head shoots up.

“Yeah, why?” I hadn’t thought she would be so crestfallen�" she’d always said that ultimately, it’s my life. She didn’t have the right to sound so sad about it. Here I was, excited that I might actually be able to do something with my photography, and yet my mom was worried that I would be living three hours away.

“Your sister needs you.” Mom reaches out to touch my arm, her voice no longer the constant steady I was used to.

“No, Mom, you need me to help take care of Liz. That’s different.” I shift out of her reach, knocking down the poster board I had set down earlier. I think back to all of the activities I had missed to drive Liz to appointments while Mom worked, all of the times I had ignored something I needed to do just because Mom needed me to watch Liz or take Liz to the park. Liz. Liz. Liz. Why couldn't she think of my life? The one I actually was looking forward to?

Her hand hovers in the air and she opens her mouth, but pauses.

“Finley. You need to remember we are a family, even if we look different from your friend’s families.” Her eyes are shining with tears, and maybe mine are too.

“Fine. We’re a family. Woo-hoo.” I grab my laptop from the bed and shove it into its sleeve. “I’m going to go back to the library. I didn’t finish filling out the applications earlier.”

I storm upstairs, the silence following my footsteps amplified in the echo of the stairwell. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and take the keys off their ring. Liz is standing under the doorway leading into our mudroom. Her eyebrows are tightly knitted together as her eyes trail after me.

“Finn where go? I go.”

“Not this time, Bitsy.” I yank open the door that always sticks.

“Eliz-abeth.”

“What?” This stops me in my tracks. I turn to look at Liz. Sometimes she says some pretty random stuff, but her full name is not usually one of them.

“Grown up. Eliz-abeth.” Her entire body is tense with the effort of getting her sentence out, hands clenched into fists at her side.

“Okay, well, Elizabeth, I need some time to myself.” I hug her and try not to let too much of my frustration show. It wasn’t really her fault that Mom and I were in a disagreement. Even if the disagreement surrounded Liz.

I walk out to the car. It had gotten colder since this morning, with the wind causing the leaves to skip across the sidewalk. I pull my jacket around my tighter.

…

Finley. Finley. Finley.

I’m so sick of writing out my name on these stupid college applications. My god. You’re never even going to meet me, why do you care? Besides, what if they simply don’t like my name and just decide not to let me in? What if there are a thousand different students who have ten times the artistic talent I have? Who did I think I was, trying to apply to the School of Chicago Art Institute? I didn’t even have an idea for the project that went along with the scholarship.

Someone walks into the library, holding an umbrella. It didn’t look like they used it at all, their clothes were sagging with the weight of water. I hadn’t noticed it had started raining, but now that I was paying attention I couldn’t miss the torrential rain that was pounding against the window so hard the panes were shaking.

I check my phone. It was later than I said I would be home, but I wasn’t about to drive home in this mess. Liz and Mom would have plenty of time to spend with me once I’m rejected from every college except the community ones nearby. And I thought I would be able to live my own life once I hit eighteen.

I turn back to my laptop, wrinkling my nose as little rubber bits from the pencil I’m chewing on get in my mouth. Ew. A bad habit I’ve tried to get rid of many times over the years.

I scroll through the School of the Chicago Art Institute’s website. I look at the vibrant designs and laughing students before opening up the PDF of the scholarship requirements. Just like the last fifty times I’ve looked at it, none of the guidelines spark any inspiration.

I rub my eyes and flip open my sketchbook. Someone’s phone is ringing. The rain is so loud. It’s kind of surprising it hasn’t let up yet. I let my pencil drift across the page, quite aimlessly so, hoping I’ll see a shape or something of interest.

“Excuse me, miss? I think your phone is ringing.” My head shoots up to look at the kid speaking. Sure enough, it wasn’t just some rando’s phone that I had heard ringing. It was mine. Could this night get any worse?

“Thanks. I’m sorry.” I try to ignore the fact that my ears and neck feel hot. She mumbles a goodnight before ducking her head and hastening off.

I pick up my phone and slide to accept the call. It was my mom, probably wondering what the heck I was doing at the library for this long.

“I’m heading home as soo�"”

“Finley. Did Liz go with you?” My mom’s voice was high and reedy. Why would Liz come to the library with me�" the pounding of the rain fills my ears and suddenly my heart is pulsing in my throat.

“Mom, what happened? Why?” My chest feels tight. Oh god, I hope I remembered to lock the door. I hope my mom isn’t going to say what I think she is.

“It’s Liz. She isn’t at home. No one has seen her. I was hoping someone�"”

“I’m going to go look for her.” I interrupt. “I have the car.”

“I already called the police,” Mom paused. “It’s raining so hard�"”

“I don’t care. I’m going to go look. I have to.” I start shoving stuff back into my bag, finger hovering over the hang up button. “Call me if you hear anything.”

Liz hadn’t eloped in at least four years. It had been forever, but she always went vaguely in the same direction. I’d start there.

I try to focus on breathing. Passing out because I was hyperventilating would only add to today’s problems and we certainly did not need that right now.

I squint at the roads, trying to look for any sign of Liz. What had she been wearing again? This morning seems like so long ago. The rain was coming down so hard it looked like it was bouncing off of the pavement.

My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel, slowing down whenever I see anyone that slightly resembles her. Drivers are honking and flipping me off as they pass me in the left lane. I wish I had taken her to the library with me. Even if I hadn’t gotten any work done because of it. None of this would have happened if I had just been a better sister. If I had just let her tag along, we would all be safe and dry and together.

…

In what seems like an eternity later, my phone rings. It doesn’t even get through two full rings by the time I pick it up.

“They found her.” My mom’s voice bubbles with the same relief I am feeling with the very tingling of my hands. ‘Be safe and come home as soon as possible. I need to talk with the officer now.”

“OK.” Thank god she was safe. I blink hard, trying to get the tears that are welling up to come down a little bit faster. My mom hangs up and I turn around towards home, headlights cutting through the dense fog that was hanging near the pavement.

I sit, parked in our driveway. I am still clutching the steering wheel with both hands. I will do this, I think, until my hands decide to stop shaking. Until I regain the glow I try to put on everyday for my mom, to let her know she always has a daughter who is there for her. To help. Her little saint.

All I can think about is what could have happened if he hadn’t found her. If I hadn’t been able to find her. My mom certainly wouldn't be calling me a saint anymore, and the house would just be littered with the broken halos.

I swing open the car door and run inside. A tall officer talks to Mom, who’s pallor closely resembles the washed out counters behind her. Liz is wrapped up in towels and leaning against her.

Suddenly, I am looking at Bitsy through the lens of how the rest of the world sees her. Warbled speech, four-foot nothing. Needs help with basic tasks like tying her shoes. Almost a highschool freshman, but you would never know.

The buzz of the refrigerator in the background is more apparent than ever. Oh, Bitsy.

I blink hard, remembering the Liz I know and decide that nothing else matters. She’s safe. She’s my sister.

…

The kettle is whistling as my mom profusely thanks the officer.

The steam swirls in the air as I pour the water into mugs for Mom and I’s tea. Whether from the cold or stale anxiety, we were still shivering.

“Come on, love. Let’s watch a movie.” Mom leads Liz to the couch. Liz nestles next to Mom with her blanket and clothes that were still warm from the dryer. I burrow into my corner of the couch, looking over at Mom and Liz.

Liz was out like a light within the first couple minutes of the movie. My mom smiles, running her fingers as gently as she could through Liz’s windblown hair. The glow emitted from the TV illuminates the dried tear stains she hadn’t had the time to wash off.

“You know, she was headed to Michaels.”

“What?” I ask.

“They found her walking towards Third Avenue, where Michaels is. The first thing she mentioned was ‘sister’ and ‘paint’.”

I think about what she had said to me today. Asking if she could go along, saying that she was ‘the same’ as me when she showed me her artwork. Maybe if I had let her come along with me to the library… No, I couldn’t start down that rabbit hole.

We were all three here, and that’s what mattered. Life would go on and take its own shape, and the future could look a million different ways, but right now the three of us were sitting on this couch. Together.

Mom had dozed off, hand still tangled in Liz’s hair. They looked so comfortable together, like the world was just white noise, insignificant compared to holding each other.

Careful not to wake them, I set my tea down on the table and retrieved my camera to take the first photo featured in my scholarship project. The idea had dawned on me somewhere in the last couple hours. It would be completely unique to any of my other projects. The name? Elizabeth.