Elton John sings.

Momma joins in.

Her voice is

prettier than

summer rain.

It is light and

warm.

And we are going

to see Lizzie.

47.

I want

to tell her all

about Ian St. Clair.

I want to hug her up

close.

I want to say,

Let’s you and me

get outta

here.

But Liz

is blurry-eyed.

And she won’t say

a thing.

Still,

when Momma

leaves the room for a smoke,

my sister

reaches for

my hand,

her fingers weak.

Be careful,

she says.

The words come out

sounding fat

like Liz’s tongue is a sponge

filled with water.

I lean close.

What’s that?

I say.

My eyes fill with tears,

but none spill over.

It has been so long

since I have cried,

my eyes feel like

hot, dry

cement.

Shhh,

Liz says,

shhh.

She gives my hand

a small squeeze,

light,

like she has no

strength.

I clutch her fingers

touch her hair

feel confused

at be careful.

I say,

All right.

I will.

There’s a window

in this room,

small and square.

It’s filled with mesh screen

to keep people out.

(To keep people in?)

Late afternoon sun

touches the carpet.

That blue-green spot is

brighter

than the rest.

Warm-looking.

The air conditioner

turns on

with a low hum.

The curtains give a gentle wave,

like they say

good-bye.

And all the time I watch,

I think,

Be careful.

Be careful.

And I wonder,

of what?

Be careful of what?

Do I tell Momma?

I say to Liz.

Do I let her know

to be careful too?

I talk close to my sister’s face

in a soft voice.

Her breath smells funny.

Do I smell like peanut butter?

Guava jelly?

Liz tries to turn

her head

but she can’t.

It’s like

it weighs too much.

But she makes a face.

Her teeth just showing.

A thin and almost-not-there

face.

Momma comes bouncing in then,

her voice announcing herself,

too loud for this

quiet moment.

You getting her to talk,

Hope?

Momma says.

I couldn’t get her to say

nothing.

Doctor says it’s normal.

Momma waits

to hear from me,

something she doesn’t do.

She talking to you?

Liz’s eyes are closed now.

She’s moved her hand

from mine.

Like we weren’t

touching

at

all

before.

I don’t know why

but I lie.

She didn’t say a thing,

I say.

I just been whispering to her.

Talking

about Ian St. Clair.

I don’t look Momma in the eye.

Instead,

I pat Liz’s long auburn hair.

Braided.

Let me say one

last thing to your sister

here,

Momma says.

You go wait by the front desk.

So I go . . .

sort of.

Really I stand right next

to the door

of my sister’s room.

But I can’t hear anything

being

said, even though I strain to.

48.

Momma got me a

Ouija board last

Christmas.

I am sure it’s broken.

Doesn’t work, not even a little bit.

Unless

I help it out some.

Except . . .