Behind Closed Doors

Chapter 10

I stare blankly out at the water, unblinking. She's gone, dead. Esme, who was faded blue swimsuits and chipped pink nail polish. She was ivory flip-flops and old notebooks. She was morning swims and vanilla perfume. Named after our great grandmother, Esme was the middle child, the peacemaker, the compromiser, the organizer. She made Cate and I's duo into a trio with her gentle voice, calm disposition, and inquisitive personality. Without her, our little group feels empty and incomplete.

Izzy is crying uncontrollably now, and both Lilia and Cate are also starting to become tearful. As for me, well, I'm in shock. I don't understand how someone who was standing just a few feet away from me ten minutes ago could now be gone forever. But, that's simply how death works. One minute, a persons there, alive and well, and the next their gone. Sometimes, it comes as a given. If one is sick, or suffers a fatal injury, or goes through a major surgery, death can be more likely, sometimes guaranteed. But sometimes, death comes as a surprise. A single moment, sometimes only seconds, that can take a persons life away. 

I look over at my sisters sitting in a small huddle, their thin bodies pressed tightly against each other. Eventually, Cate speaks up. "What do we do now?" She asks, her voice trembling. I take a deep breath, I am the eldest daughter, the strongest daughter, the smartest daughter. "There's only one option," I say, "we go back." "What!, why?" Lilia shrieks. "Because," I say, "mother and father are sure to call the cops when they wake up, and if they find us and realize Esme's gone, they're going to make assumptions." I give my sisters a meaningful glance until Izzy pipes up, "So, if the cops find us, they're going to think that we're on the run for something we did. That we murdered Esme."

So we track back down the bridge, and back to the street. It's about two in the morning now, less than three hours after we made our escape. If we hurry, we can be back at the house before five, when father wakes up to start his coffee. The walk back is silent except for the occasional whisper and the sound of stifled crying. Cate's phone is still pulled up with GoogleMaps, the screen's pale blue tinted light illuminating the darkness.

Finally, we arrive at the lake house. I open the faded birchwood door and quietly traipse into the house with my sisters right behind. We creep through the main floor, again careful to not step on any creaky floorboards. We tiptoe back up the hardwood stairs adorned with a gold bannister and surrounded by images of the family throughout the years. I pause momentarily when I see a photo of Esme. It was when she was about eleven or twelve, and it was taken here, in South Haven at the beach. In the image, Esme is standing on the sand with a pink swimsuit, and is holding ice cream cone in her outstretched hands. I hold back my tears and continue up the stairs. I have to stay strong for my sisters, have to step into my role as the eldest. Without being the eldest, I am nothing.

We attempt to get a few more hours of sleep until the next morning when I wake my sisters up early for us to formulate our story for when mother and father ask about Esme. We agree that we will say that we were asleep the whole night, and have no idea as to what happened to her. We even come up with an exact timeframe and extra embellishments for when the police get involved. But even with our perfectly thought out plan, I still feel full of nerves when mother calls us to come to the kitchen. As I walk down the steps, my hands shake, lightly grasping he bannister. 

"Good morning." Mother says as she serves our breakfast. Father is reading the paper and barely glances up at us. Cate looks over at me, and I can tell she's wondering how long it will take for mother to realize Esme's not here. As if reading my thoughts, mother says, "Wait, girls, where is Esme this morning?" Cate shoots me a quick, almost invisible glance before responding. "She wasn't in our room when I woke up, so I assumed that she had come downstairs early." Father scoffs dismissively and says, "How can we believe anything Cate says when she's a living sin." He spits out the word like it's venom in his mouth. Cate looks down at the floor, tears welling up in her eyes.

Despite father's inattentiveness, mother looks worried. "Did none of you see her this morning?" she asks anxiously. We all shake our heads quickly, no. "Lilia and I both slept soundly last night, so she could have let during the night and we wouldn't have noticed." Izzy says. Cate nods and adds, "Yeah, I was really tired, so I was asleep the entire night, too." Her voice is quiet and meek, an effect of father's outburst. Mother looks over at me, questioningly. I nod, "I was sleeping as well." She shakes her head frantically. "This isn't good." Mother says, facing father, "Robert, could you call the police please?" She asks him in the same delicate voice she always uses when addressing father, making the smallest amount of commotion so as not to anger him. Father nods, still not all that concerned. "She probably just ran off and is sitting under a highway somewhere, starving. Serves her right, the spoiled brat. Once we find her, she'll be sorry." He chuckles darkly before picking up the phone and dialing 911.

When the police arrive, we tell them the same thing we told mother. We say we were sleeping and didn't hear or see anything. We play the part of the innocent children, simply hoping to find our runaway sister, our foreheads creasing with concern. The police officers speak to mother and father as well of course, asking if they noticed Esme behaving odd in the days leading up, which they both promptly denied.

The police cars eventually leave, pulling out of our driveway and onto the street, their bright lights blinking tauntingly, as if singing, "liars, liars, liars."