Page 85 of Our Secrets and Scars

“Whatever.” She looks to the ceiling and frowns, as if trying to keep herself calm. “I know you’re hurting, and babe, I’d take it all away if I could. And I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry that things with Holden turned out the way they did, but I’m trying to help. I wish you could see that.”

“You had no right to do what you did.”

Her shoulders fall. “I know. I overstepped, I get that. But girl, if I hadn’t texted your mom back, no one would have.”

I say nothing, and she sighs again, struggling to hide her frustration this time.

“Look, I’m just gonna go to Harriet’s. But think about it, yeah? They even offered to give you a ride if you need one.” She picks up her small suitcase from the end of her bed and makes for the door. But she pauses to look back at me before she opens it. “Merry Christmas, Kinsley. I truly hope you don’t spend it alone.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until the door slams shut behind her.

Mom:Hi, darling. We’re staying in Bauer tonight and thought we could pick you up on the way back through tomorrow if you don’t already have a ride. We’ll be leaving around two. Let me know.

I blink at my phone. The text from Mom flickers back at me as I stare at it in indecision. A war rages within me between the woman who’s sick of feeling second best to her sister and the little girl who simply just wants her mama.

It’s been years since Bexley died, longer still, since I had a relationship with my parents that wasn’t rife with tension and comparisons. Yet I still ache for their approval like a child showing them a drawing and hoping it’s good enough to be displayed on the fridge.

It’s because of my inner child that, two hours later, I find myself sitting in the back of my parents’ car as we take the long way home. We haven’t driven along Route 42 since the night of the accident. Instead, we always diverge west through Nevada and then up into Idaho. It adds hours to the journey, but we’d all rather sit in the car a little longer than revisit the place where our worlds were forever changed.

“So,mi vida,” Papa says as he drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the back of my Mom’s headrest, “how’s school going?”

This is probably when I should tell them about the Dean’s list and the award my advisor put me up for, but I don’t. I consider it momentarily, but it’s a fleeting thought. One that dies an instant death the moment it enters my mind.

“Fine,” I mumble.

Papa laughs. “You’re chatty today.”

“Finals were last week, they took it out of me.”

“Bexley was always so good at exams.” Mom sighs, looking out the window with a wistfulness that makes me roll my eyes. “She’d graduate college magna cum laude, no question. Our little genius, wasn’t she, Augustin?”

“Si,Selene, she was.”

I look out the window and scowl. The sky is heavy with swollen clouds, a rippling tapestry of gray. The color of it mirrors the blankness I feel at the conversation and the sullenness that settles over me at the mere mention of my sister.

And I know that it isn’t right. I know that I shouldn’t grind my teeth and look vacantly out at the misery of the winter landscape at the sound of Bexley’s name.

My parents lost their daughter. They have a right to want to talk about her, share memories or imagine what she’d be like now.

But the sad truth is, their reminiscence does nothing but breed resentment in me. I can’t join in and remember the good parts. All I can think about is the crushing pressure I felt to keep up with her when she was alive, a pressure that has only multiplied in her death.

How can I compete for my parents’ approval when my sister’s victory is eternally predisposed, even from beyond the grave?

I can’t.

It doesn’t matter what I achieve in life, whether it be studying immigration law at college to help families just like mine or even winning a Nobel prize someday, I will never be able to hold a candle to the golden, gloried memory of Bexley Dahlia Garcia.

The rest of the journey passes in much the same way. Mom’s comment about Bex’s academic prowess was only the start of a long stint of talking about my sister’s excellence and mastery of all things.

They recall our kindergarten nativity when Bexley played the Star of Bethlehem. How original her portrayal was, how well she projected her voice across the large hall and that she was clearly the most talented child in the production by a long stretch.

They didn’t mention that I played Mary. Or that my enactment of childbirth was so on the nose that it made a mother in the front row throw up.

“We still have it on video tape, I should think,” Mom says, excitement shining in her aging eyes. “We’ll have to watch it.”

And when we finally get home and have dinner, after I’ve cleared the table and tidied the kitchen without acknowledgment, Papa finds the tape of the nativity and loads it into the player. All the while, they marvel at Bexley’s supposed natural flair for acting and how beautiful she looks, wrapped head to toe in golden sparkly material.

Not once do they acknowledge the girl dressed as the Virgin Mary sitting on her knees in the middle of a makeshift barn with self-pride shining in her umber eyes as she gives the performance of her life. In fact, it’s as if she doesn’t exist at all. They care only for the daughter on the other side of the stage.

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