It was one of the less-humid days of the month, which in Florida there aren't many. It was nearing the middle of October, and the air was beginning to get crisper. Despite this, it was still considered nice enough to enjoy the beach and hit the waves. Cold or warm though, Lola would be out there either sitting in the sand inches away from where the sea touches dry land or sitting on the orange wood-toned porch swing on the raised back porch of our parents' beach house. This year Lola is staying with them, opposed to the years she hasn't. She would come and go as she pleased either by will or by force. Regardless she always bounced back, always came back to where she knew she was safe. Although if you ask her, she would disagree. I watched the back of my sister from the large clear windows in the kitchen that looked out to the ocean. It was overcast today with the winds stronger than usual, threatening a storm for later. She ran out there before we could finish discussing the elephant in the room. This was often the case with her. We had to dance around the big grey eyesore in order to keep her on the ground. But once she connected the dots, once she realized the seriousness of my mother and I's faces, she would shoot up like a rocket and get the hell out of dodge.
"You should go get her, Eli. Dinner is almost done." Mom said from behind me in the kitchen. Sautéing mushrooms and onions and garlic wafted up my nose, making my mouth water, but I kept my eyes on the back of Lola's head, her blonde hair whipping against the wind. I hoped Lola wouldn't ruin steak night. Our father was at work, and while Lola was home, he conveniently stayed at work later than usual, often missing dinner. Most days, I didn't blame him.
"After what happened last time we tried to 'go get her?'" My voice was thick with sarcasm.
Without looking I knew my mom was shaking her head. "There have been too many 'last times.' They've all blend together at this point."
"All the more reason to leave her be," I muttered.
A cupboard opened. Glass china clinked together. Three plates. "Didn't she pull out her hair last time?"
I shrugged a shoulder. "Just a fistful."
"And the time before that she ate sand?"
She shoved the dry substance down her throat until she choked it all up. Her voice was grainy for weeks. "Something like that." I said to the glass.
Mom clicked her tongue in response and left it at that. I wasn't sure if she was lying about not knowing the details of her daughter's episodes-or fits, as she calls them- or not wanting to admit them, or admitting that she didn't get the perfect nuclear family that she always dreamt for as a little girl. Nevertheless, I didn't consider my mom and I on the same page when it came to Lola. I was the first witness to Lola's episodes growing up. Mom and Dad woke up from me crying and yelling to them, asking them to get Lola when she wouldn't listen to me.
"Eli, please," my mother sighed. She sounded tired. From work? Maybe. But my money was from her daughter. With Lola back home, the entire house was tired.
"Yeah, yeah I got her." I rolled my shoulders and took a few deep breaths. My heartbeat picked up, anxiety setting in, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A phantom ache tinged the skin on my wrist from last time when she sliced me like a feral cat. Anything could happen this time, like all the other times.
I pulled open the screen door and stepped out onto the deck. I took the steep stairs down to the sand and took a few steps forward, close enough where she could hear me over the roaring wind.
"Lo!" I called. "Mom wants you inside. Dinner is almost ready."
Only the wind replied. She didn't twitch or flinch at my sudden appearance. I can assume she didn't hear me, but she has the tendency to zone out, or as she calls it, float. Comfortably wander off into her own world, her own thoughts but close enough to stay where she is meant to be. I took a few steps forward until I could smell the peach body-mist she often soaked herself in. The number one rule with retrieving Lola was do not, under any circumstances, touch her. Whether that it is a touch on the arm, an attempt at a hug or a simple tap on the shoulder; it was all considered popping her bubble. A simple tap led to the marks on my arm. I stepped aside so she isn't blocking my view of the ocean. I mimicked her, crossing my arms over my chest, and staring straight ahead at the horizon.
