Stolen Course(2)

“She is, and you don’t need to see her.”

An image of her laughing at dinner flashes behind my eyes as once again reality takes hold. This is not happening. The temporary shield of anger fades away as devastation settles in. As I’m lying facedown on the side of a highway, gut-wrenching sobs spring from my chest.

“Oh, God. Please, not Manda.”





“PERFECT. OH that’s great. A little to the left. Little more. Tiny bit more. Yes, yes! Now hold it!” I yell at the dumbass blonde I’m photographing.

I know I probably shouldn’t think like that about my clients. After all, they are paying me. But this woman really is frustrating. She is paying me to take pictures of her stupid historic house for a dumb, ridiculously popular home magazine. I have no idea why she needs to be in every shot. They are just going to crop her out to focus on the house, but regardless how many times I tell her that, she still squeezes into every shot. I just took a picture of her ugly King Charles spaniel sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch. Fuck my life.

My phone rings with a Chicago area code. I don’t recognize the number, and my heart begins to race at the very idea of what this phone call could be about. Just another update from Brett? Or maybe it’s the call I’ve been dreading since the night that changed everything.

My sister, Sarah, was involved in a car accident five years ago. It completely fucked her up, and then it fucked me up. About six weeks after Sarah’s accident, our father died. He wasn’t exactly young, but that didn’t make his stroke any less unexpected. It was the worst day of my life. When it came time for his funeral, on a day when I needed her more than ever, Sarah wasn’t there. I would have been a heartless bitch if I’d said that I didn’t understand her reasons. She had just lost her best friend and was suffering from a pretty serious head injury herself. But I can’t say that it didn’t hurt like hell when she told me that she couldn’t make Daddy’s funeral.

A few weeks after the wreck, Sarah tried to kill herself. I’ve never been able to wrap my mind around why she would cross that line, even with as many times as I have tried to put myself in her shoes. When I got the phone call about her first suicide attempt, I was pissed. I knew she had been dealing with guilt, but she and I were always close. And after the accident, I really tried to be there for her. If she had emotional stuff going on, she could have reached out to me. Hell, she should have reached out to me. One phone call—that’s all it would have taken. I would have been on a plane the same night. I could have helped. But she never once picked up the phone. It was bad enough that she'd moved almost a thousand miles away, but she could have fucking called.

So on the day we buried my father, I stood with my mom and said goodbye, praying that I didn’t have to say goodbye to my sister soon too.

After Sarah’s accident, she didn’t just change, she lost it completely. Her husband, Brett is a total sweetheart. He has been taking care of her for the last few years, but for reasons known only to Sarah, she hates him—has ever since the accident. He’s a really good guy, and he doesn’t deserve the shit she gives him. He’s done nothing but stand by her side, waiting for her to reemerge. But Sarah is hidden so deep inside this new woman that I’m not sure anyone can reach her—at least that is what I tell myself.

As the phone rings in my hand, I suck in a quick breath and prepare for the worst.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Emma. It’s Brett.”

I listen closely to his voice for clues on how bad this call is going to be.

“Is everything okay?” I chew on my lip, waiting for his response.

“She’s fine,” he says, reassuring me right off the bat. “A lot of stuff happened today. She tried…again.” I know exactly what he means by tried.

Brett is the big brother I never knew I wanted. I love him, and he’s super protective of me. He and Sarah started dating when I was only sixteen years old. I’ve grown up with him watching over me from afar.

“How bad?” I immediately jump to the heart of this phone call.

“She’s okay. But this one isn’t going to be brushed under the rug. She did some really shitty stuff yesterday, babe. Stuff that will have legal consequences for her.”

“What?” I shriek across the line.

He lets out an audible sigh, and if I know Brett at all, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “Emma, she tried to shoot me last night. She locked herself up in an apartment, and when I went in after her, she actually pulled the trigger.”

“No,” I whisper in disbelief. “Shit, are you okay?”