Chapter Six Mary
Chapter Six
Mary
Five years ago
The car hummed around us, a sealed capsule of silence. My hands were locked on the steering wheel, our reflection faint in the windshield—two sets of eyes staring back at me, mine and hers, both shell shocked.
I told myself I was angry at my parents, but really, I was furious with myself. Sam told me to call first. To ease them into it. But I wanted the surprise—the joy, the miracle moment.
I wanted to give her the family she should’ve had.
A memory of my parents rose uninvited, so clear that it felt like I could roll down the window and smell it.
Dad at the grill, sleeves rolled up, pretending he was on some cooking show. “Temperature is an art form,” he said solemnly as he flipped a burger. “You’ve got to know when to commit.”
Mom lounged nearby in her deck chair, sunglasses perched on her head, pretending to read but mostly watching him. “Commit to not giving us food poisoning,” she called out.
I stretched on the grass with a lemonade, pretending to study.
Dad grinned over the smoke. “That’s the Langston way, Marebear. Never panic, always flip with confidence.”
Mom laughed. “The secret,” she said, “is a well-funded take-out budget.”
And we all laughed, and I remember thinking, This is what home feels like.
The memory faded as quickly as it came. The smell of charcoal became hot asphalt; the laughter turned into the steady hum of tires. My fingers further tightened on the steering wheel. The easy, certain world I grew up in felt a million miles away.
A horn blared behind me, jolting me fully back. The sun was lower now, pouring through the windshield in bright, blinding stripes. Sam was still facing the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass.
The silence stretched so long, it felt like a living, breathing thing sitting there between us.
Then, quietly, I asked, “Did you ever look for them?”
She turned her head slightly. “Who?”
“Our parents. The people who . . . made us.”
Her breath left her on a short, tired laugh. “You mean the people who threw us away.”
I blinked. “That’s not fair. You don’t know what their situation was—maybe they—”
She shook her head before I could speculate on any alternative scenarios.
“I know enough,” she said wearily. “I know that I struggled every day. I only had myself to count on. You had . . . more. Clearly.”
“I didn’t know you existed, Sam.” I reminded her gently. “None of us did. My parents didn’t—”
“Your parents,” she snapped, then took a deep breath before softening her tone. “Your parents raised you in a huge house with a pool and a stable. They showed up for you. They’d do anything, give anything to make you happy.”
“It’s not like some fairy tale,” I whispered.
“Sure looks like one from where I’m standing,” she muttered, turning to look out as the orange cones and flashing lights funneled us into a single lane.
“I just . . .” she began again after a long moment, not bothering to look at me, “I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like to be you. To have that. Even for a minute.”
The road narrowed; so did the air as I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“You should have had all of it. My life should have been your life.”
She shrugged, a sad smile tugging at her lips.
“It’s a shame, you know? I let myself get excited there for a second—this idea that I finally had someone in my life. I never dreamed I’d find family. But here you are.”
I glanced her way, perplexed.
“What’s a shame? You should be excited! I’m excited . . .”
“Nah,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “That’s not the way it works out for me. I should have known better.”
Something in her tone made me grip the wheel harder. “What? Sam, I am here for you. I’m your sister! You are never going to be alone again!”
For a second she looked as if she might believe me. But then it was gone, the hope in her eyes replaced with steely certainty.
“You don’t get it, Mary. Nothing good lasts. Not for people like me.”
“Sam—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She shifted, reaching for her seat belt.
The movement made my pulse spike. “What are you doing?”
“I just need air.” She fumbled with the buckle. “I need . . . a minute.”
“Sam, wait—we’re still moving.”
“It’s barely anything. I’ll be okay.”
“Please,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Just talk to me.”
She shook her head, eyes shiny but determined. “Not right now. Pull over.”
“No,” I said softly. “Not like this.”
“Mary.” Her voice wavered. “I need you to stop the car.”
Traffic slowed around us, the crawl almost a standstill—but not quite.
“Sam, please,” I whispered.
She unbuckled.
“Don’t—” My heart slammed against my ribs.
But her hand was already on the door handle. Even at five, maybe ten miles an hour, the idea of her stepping out made my stomach drop.
“Sam, just—wait!”
The door cracked open.
She jumped.