How to Love ✔️

25 goodbye

T R U M A N

I guess I thought my parents would change their minds about Katie. That a week would pass and they'd realize taking their daughter off life support would turn out to be a mistake. It seemed pretty obvious to me. Selfish, but obvious.

The three of us were sitting in the hospital room. It had become our new family room, the only place we were all together. My parents were on the couch and I was on the edge of Katie's bed. Her feet stuck out from the blanket and her toenails were painted yellow, no doubt by my mother's hands. If anything she should have chosen black, for the funeral we'd have to plan.

I looked away. I closed my eyes, clenched my jaw. My fingers twitched for a cigarette. I pushed the weakness down.

The doctor walked in, long white beard and round stomach. He was smiling in that soft way doctors did around us. Like anything a bit rougher would rip us to shreds. He was right. It would have.

They started talking about Katie's options. Again, I tuned out.

I thought about Eden. How I still hadn't told her. I think I was still waiting for my parents to change their minds. For a banner to roll down from the ceiling that read "Gotcha!" Once Eden knew, it was all over. It became real. And it was easier for me to keep all this pain inside. I didn't want to pass it on to her. Not when she had only just started to feel happy again.

But if my parents went through with this. . . I didn't know how much time Katie had left. How many days we'd have to say our goodbyes. They had to make their choice so I could make mine.

I reached into my pocket and felt the rigid edges of the cigarette pack. I ran my finger against it, reminded myself to keep breathing.

I closed my eyes. All I saw was black and I wondered what Katie saw. I hoped she saw blue. That there were clouds and sunshine and that sound the sun's rays make on summer days. I didn't want her to spend an eternity staring into a void of darkness.

How do you say goodbye to your little sister? How do you say goodbye to someone who isn't present to hear it? I needed her to wake up, right now, for just one second. I needed to tell her I was sorry. There were so many words I had to say.

Then I heard those two words again, "life support." It was my dad's voice this time. I opened my eyes and the doctor was nodding. I read his lips. Whenever you're ready. That was the problem. I never would be.

Pulling the plug felt like giving up. And I couldn't give up on Katie. Not before I could give her the sky.

When the doctor left, my mom was crying with her head on my dad's chest.

"Don't do this," I said, not recognizing my own voice. "She can still wake up. She's still fighting. I know she is."

I turned to my sister. I grabbed her hand, I brushed the hair off her face. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was pale. The study hum of the heart-beat monitor played around us. I squeezed her hand so tightly, begging her to wake up. "Please," I whispered, blinking through tears. "Show them you're still here, Katie. Show them."