I thank the receptionist, then duck off to the side. My cell phone’s search browser shows a flight departing Paris on Sunday, landing me at San Diego International late Sunday night, with time zone differences. Just in time for the first day of UCSD’s med school orientation. Moving forward, I have to buckle down. Cut out all distractions to find Angela. No more Seb. No more fake-trusting nature.

My sister is alive. The idea is enough to make me light-headed when my arm starts to pulse; a bruise takes shape where the drunk attacked me. Remaining in Paris will require more than simply intentional choices and being alert. I need someone who can walk me through this city and all of its hidden pitfalls and interactions in another language. I still need a guide.

I scroll through my phone to this morning’s call log, then press down.

“Allo?”

Heavy breathing carries through the receiver, and I have to wonder whether looping in another Frenchman is wise. Whether there’s any wisdom to staying here. Or whether I’m about to ask another witness to document this week’s slow implosion of my life.

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

from: Angela Darby <[email protected]>

to: “Darby, Shayna” <[email protected]>

date: Jun 23, 2015 3:04 a.m.

subject: (no subject)

Dear Shayna,

Tell me it’s not true. Tell me this is a terrible nightmare. Tell me Mom and Dad are still breathing.

I’ve gone through eight tissue boxes. Three rolls of toilet paper when I ran out of tissue. I don’t know where the tears keep coming from.

No words can express the depth of the black hole in my stomach, eating a pit where my organs once were. I picture it like something out of Star Trek, consuming all of my happiness, my spirit, my will to do anything, and leaving only blackness behind. It won’t stop. When I close my eyes, I see Mom’s long dark hair and Dad’s thinning, russet tufts falling into the abyss. So I try not to close my eyes. I try to memorize photos of them, replay the sounds of their voices in my head and Dad’s shrill finger whistle—but the second I close my eyes, the images of them falling return. I didn’t even see them, as you did. When you identified the bodies.

Mom and Dad are gone.

I’m so angry at myself for leaving, for being here and not spending the last few months of their lives with them. All because I felt lost at home. Confused. Scared at the quarter-life crisis bearing down on me. We are orphans. My heart physically aches at the thought of you alone in our parents’ home, to the point where I looked at the medications I’m taking to see if they created palpitations.