Corrosive

11:58 PM

The phone is ringing. It wakes us all up. Why is it ringing?

I sit up as I listen to my father move along the landing and down to the hall. His voice is groggy and thick with sleep.

'Hello? Who is this?'

'Yes, that's me. Do you know what time it is?'

'Yes, she's my daughter. Why?'

Then a long pause. Finally, 'What?'

'Tell me you're joking.'

'No, no, you wouldn't joke, I understand. Let me wake my family.'

'Yes, I'm sure. I'm not going to do this alone!' He hangs up, and I listen to him climb the stairs, heavy on the wood for the first time I can remember. He goes into his and my mother's room, says something, and Mom cries out. Silence for a few minutes, and then the two of them come into my room.

In my door, they stand silhouetted. Dad's voice is disembodied when he speaks. 'We need to go to the hospital. Your sister has been involved in a car accident.'

~*~

I've never seen the roads emptier than at ten past twelve in the morning, or my father driving faster. We reach the hospital and Dad gives his name at the desk. The receptionist makes a short call, and an undergrad with hollow eyes and shaking hands comes and leads us to a room containing only a bed covered with a sheet. The sheet makes odd hills and valleys of the bed, and I almost laugh at the irony- Milly's favourite TV show is a crime drama, with plenty of murders. Now the last image I'll have of her is the same as those shows.

Life support machines stand near the bed, a heart rate monitor shows an ordinary heartbeat and I could swear she's breathing. Evidently Mom thinks so.

'We were told she was dead.'

I wasn't.

'I'm afraid she is,' the undergrad picks at his cuticles. 'She's brain dead. But, em... the life support machines, yeah, they, em, can keep the heart beating and even lungs breathing for, em, some time, after death.' He's relieved to finish a sentence.

'I see.' Mom nods. 'Well, we're here to identify her. Pull back the sheet.'

The undergrad picks up the sheet and pulls it slowly back.

My sister looks awful. Her skin is pale, half her face is bruised, and there's a nasty cut on her forehead. Dad staggers away and I hear him retching into the sink. It is far louder and hacking now than when he's on stage.

'Is it her?' the undergrad whispers.

My mother nods and turns away. 'Yes. Yes it is.' I watch her take deep breaths, and her court composure breaks. A droplet of water slides from one unmade eye. Dad washes out the sink, turns and sees it. He moves gracefully to her and they embrace. I stare, and then turn away. I have never seen such a thing, and it's deeply private.

Another doctor, older, with grey streaks running the length of her black hair, comes in then, and the undergrad gives a sigh of relief. This new doctor waves her hand in his direction, and the undergrad almost runs from the room.

My parents pull apart, and I watch as my mother's hands trail across my father's chest. In his prime, he would have been built, strong enough to lift any ballerina over his head. Now as the head choreographer, all he has to do is imitate the moves he wants. His hands, in turn, clutch her hips, braced, fingers splayed, waiting for the leap of faith that will never come again. The doctor pins a sad, understanding face on as she approaches.

'I understand how hard this must be for you, Mister and Misses Reiner-'

'First mistake,' Mom says, legal skills showing. 'Mister Reiner and Miss Donstream, if you please.'