I run my fingers along the rough fibers of the rope, and I remember everything.
As the coarse braid grazes the surface of my skin, I am once again asleep and dreaming on the morning everything fell to pieces.
The water is cold.
The wet sand crunches under my knees.
I am still here.
Christina is gone.
She is in the churning water somewhere, lost, the current pulling her toward the unknown.
I don’t know why we went to the beach. I don’t know where my sister is.
My phone is ringing, and it rouses me half-awake. Eyelids heavy, mind fuzzy, I am of two worlds right now; I am both sleepy and no longer asleep. It clouds my sense of what I dreamed and what is real.
Just a few minutes ago, I was in my mind, and it was a cloudless night, and the full moon shone a bright ray of light across the choppy surface of the water. I was in the ocean with Christina, where I was trying to swim against the rip currents toward the shore. She kept reaching for me, and I kept pushing her off, trying to save myself. Finally, when I got to the beach, I looked back, and Christina had disappeared, the only sound remaining the crashing of waves before me.
She was my sister, and she was there for a moment. Now I was alone on the beach, kneeling in the sand, confused and tired.
I don’t remember why we were in the water.
I don’t remember if she called my name as I made it toward the shore or if she went down silently.
The phone is still ringing, so I reach to answer it.
My T-shirt is damp from sweat, and my hands shake from the memory of my struggle in the sea. I can still feel the force of the cold water pushing me further and further away from shore. I can still smell the sea air, feel the seaweed clutch at my ankles like handcuffs, threatening to pull me under the water’s surface. I can still see that my sister is not there. I can feel that the darkness has swallowed her up.
I take a breath before answering the call.
My mother’s voice is quiet on the other end of the phone.
"Dad and I can’t find Christina."
I am disoriented, confused by my mother’s call. I am still in that in-between time, partway from dreaming to being awake, between imagination and reality.
I hear my mother’s words. And I am suddenly afraid that my mother can see into my dreams, devastated that I left my sister in the water so I could survive. In my mind, I see my mother looking for Christina from the sand, waiting for her head to surface above the waterline. I imagine I’m watching her stumble by the waterline, grasping at shells and reeds as if she can pull Christina back ashore with them. I can hear her calling for Christina, cursing the currents that pull her daughter further and further away.
It can’t be true. It was just a dream.
"What do you mean you can’t find her, Mom? Where is she supposed to be?"
"She didn’t come home last night and isn’t in the guest room now. And I can’t get in touch with her."
As I come out of my haze, I don’t understand why this deserves a phone call. I am not convinced that anything is unusual, despite my dream last night. But my mother is quietly insistent.
"She was supposed to go to the city with me today. We were going to meet Leslie and her mother for dinner and a show. We bought the tickets months ago."
Christina didn’t often commit to spending time with our family, but I assume her best friend Leslie’s inclusion in the plans made them more appealing. Yet, despite Christina’s promise to go to New York with my mother later today, I am still not worried.
I sit up and rub my eyes. I try to be patient as I fumble for my glasses. The world around me is a collection of vague shapes without them, disorienting me even more. I put them on as if they would help sharpen my focus, with my mind still fuzzy.
I look at my clock, and it’s only eight a.m.
"Mom, it’s early. You know she never wakes up this early. There’s plenty of time for Christina to come home from wherever she is. She probably drank too much and is crashing on someone’s couch."
"Maybe. But what if something happened to her?"
I try to comfort her as best I can.
"I’m sure she’ll be home any minute."
My mother keeps pressing the point.
"Mom," I insist. "This has happened so many times before—"
My mother cuts me off and says, "Jen, I want to know where your sister is. She’s my daughter, and I’m worried. Something isn’t right."
It is happening again.
Christina’s whereabouts are unknown.
My parents are worried.
My day is ruined.
It is our pattern, one artfully perfected after years of practice.
I imagine Christina is somewhere—perhaps sleeping off too many Chardonnays—immune to the storm of concern slowly brewing in my parents’ minds. Or that she has seen our attempts to contact her and turned away from them as she has often done when she feels bitter or slighted about something. Even if we’re not aware of the source of her anger. Even if we are, unwittingly, the source ourselves.
For the sake of peace and moving on this morning, I hope she will be reasonable with her emotions and leave a small trail of meager breadcrumbs to keep us satisfied and hopeful as we try to catch up with her on her erratic path.
I can see Christina now, as I’ve seen her so many times before, creeping in the front door in the early morning with tousled hair and slept-in makeup. She would pass me sitting on the couch and say something like "What are you looking at?" if I asked her questions about where she’d been.
While her behavior has often been slightly irresponsible and often frustrating, it’s also been consistent. So, I’m not sure why today is different. I can’t imagine that it’s different.
We’ve been down this road so many times before.
Christina has been drifting in and out of our daily lives for years, orchestrating absences to prove her point when family discussions went wrong. She has long exercised her perceived right of rebellion. She has so often made us wonder when—and if—we’ll see her next. Yet Christina’s absences were not only physical. They could also be emotional; she would simply go through her daily routines of life without the need to talk to us or return our calls or texts.
I honestly don’t care anymore.
My father has taken the phone from my mother. "Look, Jen, I think your mom might be overreacting. I’m sure Christina is fine. But maybe reach out to her?"
"I agree, Dad."
My father was much less likely to jump to conclusions than my mother. While she has always envisioned some disaster awaiting us, he has always been more likely to chalk it up to one of us simply being irresponsible. So much like Christina and I are, my parents are so different in their personalities. But when it comes to dealing with Christina, they are very similar in that they put love first. No matter what Christina does, they find a way to keep loving her. Even when she is unlovable, they have told me so many times that they are her parents, and while they can’t explain why she behaves the way she does, there is some goodness in my sister and that she is their daughter and that is the end of it.
My mother tempers worry with comfort. She is the only child of a single mother. My grandmother set firm boundaries around my mother to protect her, a feeling of protection my mother has always blanketed upon Christina and me. Despite us being adults, she still does this because she’s incredibly kind and sensitive and places the value of family above all else. Which is part of the reason my mother refuses to turn my sister away, even when she’s had enough of her behavior. Even when that behavior tortures her.
Which I often find infuriating. But I have done the same, so I can’t judge my mother.
My father has always had a slightly different perspective. He has always been more of a free spirit, the older of two children who explored the world under less strict supervision. I remember hearing the stories of parties and pranks and punishments and feeling like my father must have been a fun guy to hang out with. He still is. But he is more measured now than he was in his youth. Still, he sometimes sees himself—perhaps too much of himself—in his daughters. This is why he doesn’t immediately jump to conclusions when one of us appears to have fucked up. But, like my mother, my father doesn’t turn my sister away either. Even when his face contorts with worry. Even when his pain is evident in his eyes. Perhaps there is something familiar in her rebellion that he relates to. And my sister can be so funny sometimes.
My father hands the phone back to my mother.
"Jen, it’s Mom again. I’m not overreacting. I know how Christina is, but this doesn’t feel right today."
"Did you see her last night? Did anything happen?"
Christina has always played by her own rules, skirting my parents’ authority and living just beyond the boundaries that have been set to keep her safe. Go where you say you’re going, make good decisions, hang out with the right people, come home when you say you’re coming home. Simple tenets she has so often thrown aside over the years.
And has again today.
"We saw her yesterday afternoon. I asked her if she would be home for dinner, but she said she wouldn’t be around last night. She didn’t say anything about not being here this morning."
"Well then, I don’t know what’s going on. But I think you might be overreacting."
"Jennifer?"
"Yes?"
"Can you please come over?" My mother pleads with me.
I challenge her, "Do you need me to come over? Can’t I just try to get in touch with her—"
She cuts me off before I can continue.
"I’m very worried."
I tell myself that this will be the last time. But, if this happens again, I will need to put my foot down and insist that we no longer operate this way. It just isn’t fair.
"I’ll be there in an hour."
I press the button to hang up, wishing I could slam the receiver down onto its cradle. It would be such a powerful and satisfying punctuation to a frustrating phone call, a gesture that cell phones have erased, where no matter how hard I press the disconnect button, it doesn’t have the same effect.
The request to come over infuriates me, and I feel guilty for it. Nevertheless, I know that we will once again put everything aside to extend our olive branches for some unknown slight that will draw Christina back into our orbit, if even just for another short while.
And, honestly, I don’t want her around anymore. I don’t want to fight to get her back from wherever she is right now. I don’t want to do the work it requires and then suffer for it.
That work entails spending our time trying to solve her mysterious disappearing act, only to be told we’re ridiculous and that she’s an adult and doesn’t need to tell us where she is all the time. And maybe Christina’s right—perhaps we play the role of seeker too much. But today, my mother feels the need to seek.
But I still see no evidence to indicate that Christina is in trouble.
The guilt creeps into my mind again. I am directing my frustration at my mother when I feel it instead for Christina.
All my mother has ever wanted is family harmony. So for her, family peace is the most important thing.
I had always shared my mother’s vision, which is why, despite every time Christina has pushed me away, I had never stopped trying to make her love me, even when it seemed impossible. Even when I raged against her unacceptable behavior. Which was most of the time.
I have never known what to do about Christina.
My parents have never known what to do about Christina.
And we still don’t.
Christina has created an environment where no one wins; she is either in trouble or not, and in either scenario, it’s emotional chaos. She’ll be pissed that we made a big deal over nothing. Or it won’t be nothing.
I think about this one episode of The Sopranos that has always struck a nerve in me. Adriana faces becoming an FBI informant and giving up her fiancée for being in the mob or going to jail for selling cocaine. I feel like Adriana is such a beautifully pathetic character, positioned between two terrible options with no apparent way out. She can either rat out her fiancée—and get whacked in retribution—or lose everything she has. Die physically or die emotionally—a tragic victim of circumstance, of forces greater than her comprehension. She tries resisting the currents that throw her around like a rowboat in a monsoon, breaking her into pieces with every wave that crashes.
Someone like Christina. Like my parents. Like me.
In some way, my parents and I have chosen to die emotionally in our relationship with Christina. And while my parents’ emotional death isn’t necessarily more significant than mine, it is different. They have two daughters who are rarely happy at the same time or for the same reasons. While my happiness rests on harmony and order within our home, it often seems like Christina relies upon chaos.
When I get Christina on the phone, I am going to let her have it. I can’t be her tracker, putting everything aside to hunt her down once again. I want to let her go.
But my parents need me to help them more than I need peace or emotional resolution.
So, once again, I relent.
I walk into the kitchen to make coffee as I consider my options. If I call Christina, there is very little chance she’ll answer. If she does respond, she’ll be irritated that I called. She will manipulate my concern into yet another disagreement, another miscommunication, and misreading of my intentions. I decide to text her first, hoping that even a one-word response would reassure my mother that there is nothing to worry about.
Hey, where are you? Mom and Dad are worried.
Short and sweet. It’s all I have the energy to write. I need this to be over with, so I can get on with my day.
I also call her because it might be more challenging to avoid a call than a text. But Christina has perfected the art of avoidance. The phone rings again and again, and Christina does not pick up. I am not surprised; Christina can go days without responding to calls or texts. Then she’ll resurface and text me but be economical with her words. One minute, she’s there; most minutes, she’s not.
I think about the dream I woke from earlier. In it, Christina had disappeared into the water. I try to remember if she disappeared because she chose to or because I pushed her away. My memory of the details fades as each minute passes, but the power of her disappearance remains the same.
In the dream and reality, Christina was there, and now she’s not.
Before heading over to my parents’ house, I prepare for my day, which includes my usual Saturday morning errands and then seeing some friends for dinner. First, I start my shopping list, noting that I need coffee, yogurt, Windex. Next, I search for a coupon for Bed Bath and Beyond, remembering that I need to replace the guest room’s comforter. Finally, I call the new Thai restaurant around the corner to make a reservation for tonight.
I quickly scroll my work email, remembering that I have a department meeting on Monday for which I need to prepare. I also need to write the final exam questions for the Con Law seminar I’m teaching this semester. I add these additional tasks to my list, confident I can finish them tomorrow, even if it pushes off my other errands. Of course, I can always hit the Bed Bath and Beyond near the Rutgers campus on Monday if I don’t get to it tomorrow.
I check my phone for texts, and there are none. I reach out to a few of Christina’s friends. I rarely contact any of them aside from Leslie. Most of them show me the same level of disinterest and animosity that Christina does, likely because she has written me as the enemy in her story. The wicked sister who has continually done her wrong through my words and actions. The villain in her narrative, paired with her by some existential error. An outsider to her life.
I have their numbers on my phone because I sent the invites for Christina’s college graduation party a few years back. I remember that party so clearly. It was one of the beautiful, peaceful resting spots in our emotional marathon. The conversation that day was as light as the breeze that swayed the diploma and cap and gown decorations hanging above us. It was one of those times that made me optimistic that Christina had turned a corner, that things could be different between us.
As the party continued that summer day, I watched Christina mingling with friends, glowing with her achievement, moving quickly through the crowd, and accepting her accolades. I felt like she was on the verge of something different that day. I had hoped she had finally found herself after so many years of searching. Of course, it’s impossible to know if she felt that way, but I am a sure study of my sister’s expressions and mannerisms, and amid the champagne and cake and balloons, I was sure I could see a spark of hope in her.
I had hoped it wasn’t a carrot I would devour, not knowing the stick would soon follow.
But the stick soon came. As it always did.
I’ve kept her friend’s numbers on my phone for years, knowing I would need them for something someday. But then, it was just a feeling. And today is the day.
I send out a few texts.
Hey, have you talked to Christina today? My parents need to get in touch with her.
Can you please text me if you hear from Christina? I want to talk to her.
Minutes pass, and I get no responses.
My phone dings, and I hope it is Christina, so we can simply be done with this today.
It’s my best friend, Joanna.
Are we on for dinner later?
I just made the reservation for 7 – Christina drama going on. I’ll text you later.
Ugh, as usual. Hang in there and call if you need me.
Thx. I’ll tell you later.
I also think to text Matt, Christina’s ex-boyfriend.
When I asked Christina why they broke up back in January, she told me to mind my own fucking business. Of course, it is not unusual for her to withhold information like that, especially if it is painful and she perceives it as making her look foolish or guilty. But I imagine it was something Christina did that was finally a bridge too far for Matt.
It wouldn’t be the first time she overstepped with him.
I overheard her telling our cousin Kristin once that she smacked Matt in the face during one of their fights. Another time, she threw a bottle into his new flat-screen TV. No matter how I imagine it, this latest fight was indeed something like that; a disagreement brought to a fever pitch by Christina, who likely had no end game for resolving it peacefully.
It would make total sense that she is either with him now or distancing herself from some new development in their occasionally tumultuous relationship. As I wait for Matt’s response, I can see Christina now, standing wild-eyed on Matt’s front lawn, slashing his tires, keying the driver’s side door of his car. I can see her driving to a motel in Pennsylvania to hide out for a few days and make everyone worry about her. I can see her leaving a bar last night and getting pulled over, now too proud to make the call to ask to get bailed out. I can see her doing a lot of things that would explain why she hasn’t appeared yet.
I’m not sure if or when he’ll respond. I don’t know how frequently Matt and Christina are in contact, if at all. My sister lived with Matt until recently after a fight sent her back to live at our parents’ house while they worked it out.
It’s a long shot, but I reach out to Matt anyway.
Have you talked to Christina at all today?
I find it ironic that Christina now lives with our parents again, even if temporarily. I don’t know why she just didn’t buy her own house or rent an apartment. Christina certainly has the money. It just seems so odd to me that she ran back to them after all those years of running from them. I don’t understand it.
Just like I don’t understand why they would take her in.
I know it’s because they love her and won’t give up on her. And that is the decision they’ve made, as they’ve told me many times.
I guess we all have to live with our decisions whether others understand them or not.
I hear my phone beep and see it’s a text from Matt.
Hey. I haven’t heard from her in a while. Sorry, Jen.
Not what I wanted to hear, but not surprising either.
My phone beeps again, and it’s a text from my father.
Would you please come now? Police called and want to talk to us.
My hands begin to shake as I put down the dishes I had started unloading from the dishwasher. I feel uneasy, a dread beginning to build as I wonder what has happened to my sister.
I look down at my shopping lists and work tasks and coupons, things that now seem meaningless as visions of car accidents and aneurysms and abductions take over my mind. I brush my teeth and get dressed as I endlessly spin out potential tragedies that might have befallen Christina. Any of these would devastate my parents beyond repair; Christina’s stroke of bad luck would plague our whole family with a sadness triggered by never having the time to make things right between us.
I am once again in my dream, and I see Christina sink below the water’s surface. I wonder what it means. My breathing has quickened, making me feel lightheaded.
I focus on regaining my breath and getting over to my parents’ house.
Christina has always made us work so hard for peace. She has never made it easy to be her parent or her sister. She has never been considerate about how her actions affect our feelings. She has always been selfish and temperamental.
And today is no different.