Before,

just after her crying started,

me and Liz

played on that ol’ board

sitting on the living room floor,

game propped

on our knees.

I made up answers to

her questions.

Does Matthew Earl

like me better’n a friend?

she said.

Yes,

the board answered,

with me just

smiling.

Am I pretty?

Beautiful,

the board said,

me wanting to laugh.

Will I die young?

Will

I

Die

Young

49.

I turned to ice,

dripping slow,

leaking,

in the heat of that question.

Will I die

young?

What kind of

question was that?

I swallowed,

glanced at my sister.

She stared at the planchette,

waiting for an answer.

Behind her

I saw the night sky

held back

by the single French door

and that yellowed lace curtain.

I saw the pale line

of the part on her head,

her hair, wavy,

and falling forward.

I have always wanted hair that color.

Not so blond as mine is.

It’s not saying anything,

Liz said.

Give it time.

I said in a whisper.

How do I fix

this?

I thought.

I have to take care of

Lizzie.

And she has to take care of me.

There was something

heavy

in my stomach.

But I jiggled

the beige pointer

like it was getting a breath of

life.

It’s going,

Liz said.

She straightened,

waiting.

The board on our knees.

Our fingertips just

touching

the tear-shaped playing piece.

I glanced again at Liz.

Couldn’t see the freckles on her face,

just that crooked part of hers

in her hair.

Would it be a lie this time too?

I wondered.

You will live a long, peaceful life,

I wanted to say.

But before I could do anything,

the pointer started

on its own.

In a smooth,

slow,

steady

pace

it made its way down

to the word

good-bye.

And stopped.

Just stopped.

Liz looked at me

and I know my

eyes were surprised.

You moved that,

I said.

I didn’t,

she said.

You did,

I said.

She shook her head

no.

I spoke too

fast.

You’re staying

with me forever,

I said,

knocking the board

from our knees,

hugging her

close.

She didn’t hug me

back.

I mean that,

I said.

I mean it.

But that awful feeling,

that I-can’t-breathe feeling,

would not go

away.

50.

Here’s the deal:

On the drive home

from the hospital

and my first visit

with her

I think of Liz’s words,

to be careful.

I think about them

the whole hour

home.

And I cannot figure it out.

Why be careful?

Of what?

Of who?

Does something wait in the dark

for me?

Did something wait in

the dark for Liz?

I think hard about

her changes.

Think of when

the crying began.

When was it my sister

decided going was

better than

staying?

When was it I

had to be

careful?

51.

Why,

Liz said to me,

when I came home

one morning

from a sleepover.

Why have you been

gone so long?

What?

I said

and threw