Page 65 of Our Sadie

She screwed her eyes closed and shook her head as if to block out something. As if she’d witnessed a horrible or graphically violent scene. Just when I assume she’s not going to say anything, she does, though she keeps her eyes pointing straight ahead into the shadows.

“Have you ever experienced an event that occurred in this specific sequence but when you dream about it or even try to remember more of it, it’s out of order?”

“Sure,” I answer. “Sometimes.”

“Like what, for instance?”

I don’t talk about Paisley with others not affiliated with her care. Sadie only knows about her situation because I almost didn’t come here because of it. And no one knows about the suck-fest our mother caused. Yet, somehow, the subject of Paisley is what pops out of my mouth.

“When I dream about my little sister, a lot of times it’s this bastardized mixture of who she was and who she is now. She’d been this smart little cookie growing up. Honors everything. Gifted and talented awards. Then, she got sick, and it’s like it wiped out who she was and replaced her with someone else. A young kid that she’d never been.”

“That must’ve been tough,” Sadie commiserates.

“When I look at Paisley now, I see both versions. The brilliant teenager who was about to go places and the small child that mentally, she’ll always be.” I shrug, even though I doubt I’m visible. There are no lamps on in here, and the curtained windows are hiding a pitch-black atmosphere outside.

“Then our mom bailed on us.” I’m kind of stunned I admitted so much, and now, I can’t seem to quit. “Just up and left without a word. I had to take full custody, or my sister would’ve wound up in the system. No way in hell could I let that happen. But I got laid off from my carpentry work and had a tough time getting on with another contractor. Temp jobs turned out to be shit. That’s when I started hooking.”

Sadie’s breathing stutters. “When was this? How old were you? How old was Paisley?”

“She was sixteen. I was twenty-six. It grew me up faster, that’s for sure.”

“I can imagine.” She pauses for a few seconds, then traces her finger along the bridge of my nose. “How did this happen?”

“Pick-up basketball game when I was thirteen.” Nothing all that exciting, I’m afraid.

“You never had it reset?”

“Doctors cost money,” I say, lifting my shoulders and letting them drop. I also wouldn’t let anyone touch me, not my mom, not anybody. Sadie’s thoughtful before she changes the subject.

“I received all these scars from when my parents’ private jet caught on fire.” I go completely motionless. She’s never once mentioned this, even if Jerome showed us that video report already. “We crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. But my dreams go off on all these fucked-up tangents about it.

“Like, one minute everything’s fine until the jet cracks open like an egg. Splits right in two. Yet I know that’s not what actually took place. Then, I’ll see the interior of the cabin and everyone inside engulfed in flames.”

The notion of that is horrific. I can’t imagine being stuck like that with no safe exit.

Burning alive.

“The fire was on the outside at that point,” she goes on. “Mostly on the wing right by my window. Or my dad has just had the flight attendant bring me my cupcake, but when I peek up from it to him, he’s dead. They’re all dead. Him, my mom, the flight attendant and pilot. Just scorched corpses in the exact same positions.” She shudders, and so do I.

Grasping for something—anything—that’ll keep her from dropping into that scary place she went before, I lock on to the one part of what she said that wasn’t nightmarish.

“What was the thing about the cupcake?”

“It was my parents’ way of surprising me on my birthday. I thought they’d forgotten.”

Wait. “That plane crash happened on your birthday?”

“My eighteenth.”

Jesus. All that occurred on such an important day?

“Wow. I’m so sorry.” My sentiment is worthless, though. There’s nothing anyone can say when your life goes to shit like that. Nothing can help. Not really.

“My birthday is the twenty-second of December. This was the five-year anniversary.” That explains a lot. No wonder she went on that tirade then broke down. “I can’t celebrate it. Can’t celebrate Christmas. Both of those dates just serve to remind me of when everything in my life altered so irrevocably. Altered forever. For the worst.”

Her room is silent. There’s no more of Jerome’s deep breathing and no more of Zach’s quiet snuffling snores. I’ve been curious about so much of her past, and now seems the only time appropriate to ask.

“How did you survive all that, Sadie?”

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