Home

My arms were sore and aching from carrying boxes from the storage room to my old jeep that waited in the yard, the once shiny black paint more like a faded charcoal after years of sun damage.

Sweat dripped down my back, making my plum tank top stick to my skin. With the final box in the trunk of the jeep, I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead with a labored sigh.

I frowned at the sun overhead. The weather was too bright for such a day as this, and it made me feel a strange sort of way I couldn’t quite identify.

Glancing back at my house, just a few feet in front of me, I wondered if I could get away with just hopping in my vehicle and driving off. I knew better, though. Leaving without saying goodbye was a low move—even for me.

I shut the trunk of my jeep and headed inside, a horrible sensation in the pit of my stomach. I felt queasy, nauseous even. It was a foreign feeling in general, but one I had become gradually more accustomed to ever since I had told my Aunt Jane I was leaving.

Leaving town, leaving the memories, leaving my little sister Bree…

That was what hurt most of all. I didn’t want to abandon her, but every time that I so much as looked at her I was taken right back to that night that ruined everything.

Staying in that house wasn’t much better. It was suffocating, actually, and I constantly felt as if the walls were caving in on me.

I’d never been much of a believer in spiritual things, especially fantastical nonsense such as ghosts, but that house felt haunted. I felt an eerie presence just sitting on the living room couch.

I’d been having nightmares lately as well, and they were different to say the least. They weren’t like normal bad dreams. I didn’t know what to make of them, but they always left me waking up in a cold sweat, my heart racing and rattling in my chest.

After two months of toughing it out, I had finally called it quits and told Aunt Jane and Bree that I was moving out. I had a plan formed in my head already. I’d go far away from our small, rural town. I would find a big city, get a small apartment with a cat or two for charm, and start my life over completely. I’d finish my degree and become a nurse.

When I was younger, I had always wanted to be a journalist—it was my first choice of career. I wanted to document stories, meet interesting people, maybe even broadcast on the news. Ever since the accident, though, my heart ached for something more. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help people, and I couldn’t do that if I was stuck in that house.

I took a shaky breath, realizing I was still standing on the front porch, stalling. I placed my hand around the doorknob, trying to work up the courage. Just get it over with, Leah…

Finally, I twisted the doorknob and walked inside. Bree and Aunt Jane were waiting for me in the living room, the former in her wheelchair, the latter on the couch. Bree looked as if I was betraying her, expression bitter…but her eyes were sorrowful. Aunt Jane was putting on a brave face, her mouth set in a thin line, but I could tell she was upset too.

“The jeep is all packed,” I said in favor of announcing my departure.

Aunt Jane stepped forward, crushing me in a bony-armed hug, her face pressed into the crook of my neck. “Oh, sweet girl…we’re going to miss you.” She always called me that—sweet girl. I never felt deserving of it, especially as I began to say my goodbyes.

She pulled away, kissing my cheek, and I dared a glance to Bree. My little sister looked as if she was on the verge of crying.

“Do you have to go?” Her pouty bottom lip trembled. “I just lost Mom and Dad. Do I have to lose you too?”

At the mention of our parents I tensed, looking away quickly as I blinked back tears of my own. “I can’t stay here, Bree, you know that. The wreck…it changed everything for me.”

“You weren’t the only one affected, Leah,” she said, gesturing to her wheelchair.

It’s true. Bree was affected greatly by losing the usage of her legs due to the crash. She used to be a dancer. A ballerina. She loved to move, run, walk…all the things an eleven-year-old girl should be able to do. It wasn’t fair that everything had been taken away from her.

“I know,” I said quietly, pain lacing my every word. “This house, though…this town.” I let out a shaky sigh. No words could express the agony I had felt since the moment it happened.

More so than agony, though, I felt guilt. Crushing, consuming guilt.

I wasn’t in the car when it crashed, and I had regretted it ever since I received the worst phone call of my life.

Two months ago, on the last day of June, Mom and Dad took Bree to her ballet competition. She’d been working hard for months and was excited to show off all that she’d learned. She begged me to come and watch and support her. The competition was out of town, though, and as much as I loved my family, I loved my alone time even more.

I didn’t want to go watch my little sister dance. I thought it was silly and beneath me to spend my weekend like that.

I was nineteen and was good at staying out of trouble, so it took little convincing to get my parents to agree to let me stay home by myself while they took Bree.

My sister was upset, but I knew she’d get over it. Sure, kids got angry fast, but they forgave even faster.

Around two in the morning my phone went off. Buried under piles of quilts—I didn’t know how to get the thermostats off cool, seeing as that was usually Dad’s job—I reached over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.

My voice was groggy and slurred from sleep as I asked the unknown number who was calling at such an hour. The side of my face was red and warm from being pressed into the pillow beneath my head and I wasn’t quite sure I wasn’t dreaming.

Even now, the ring of a phone sets me off. Makes my bones jump out of my flesh for a brief, frightening moment.

I scrambled out of bed, putting on the closest pair of shoes I had—an old pair of flip flops that I’d bought two summers ago for a beach trip. Grabbing my keys, I ran out of the house, still in my pajamas, and climbed into my jeep before taking off for the hospital where Dad and Bree were.

Mom died on impact, they had told me, and about three hours into my five hour drive I got another call.

Dad had died in surgery.

Hot, angry tears began to stream down my face, my right foot heavy on the gas pedal, my heart aching in my chest.

Mom and Dad were gone. It would be just my sister and I from then on out. How was I supposed to take care of her? Would I raise her? I was only nineteen, barely an adult.

Pushing those thoughts of my mind, I drove faster. If something happened to Bree and I wasn’t there to say goodbye I would never forgive myself.

Once I got to the hospital, I was relieved that my Aunt Jane was there as well. She became a widow at only twenty-seven. She knew grief well—they were old friends, she had said.

She pulled me into one of her tight hugs and did her best to comfort me. It was no use, though. Despite what the poets said, there was no comfort in death.

We moved in with Aunt Jane as soon as Bree got out of the hospital, and we took her home in her brand new wheelchair.

Guilt had followed me every day since. Guilt for the fact that I wasn’t in the car, that I didn’t make it to the hospital to say goodbye to Dad before he died, that I would never be the sister and caretaker that Bree deserved.

That’s why I had to leave. This lonely, shameful feeling…I needed to leave it far behind, and this was the only way I could think to do that.

I gave Bree a brief hug. She tried to make it longer, holding on tight to me with her arms around my waist, but I gently pried her off of me.

Bree looked away, biting her lip as she seemingly fought back more tears. I was doing the same.

“Here, sweet girl,” Aunt Jane said, voice small and meek, and she pulled a maroon envelope from her purse. It was sealed with a golden, shimmering circle of wax. “Your parents left this for you.”

I stared at the envelope as she held it out to me. I was scared to take it, as if the paper itself would burn me if I so much as touched it.

“Why…” I trailed off, meeting my Aunt’s hazel eyes.

She gave me a sad smile. “You know why.”

I did. My parents were always expecting the worst. They were prepared for everything, really. When I was nine they had us all make zombie apocalypse bags, just in case. I thought it was silly, a joke perhaps, but they were completely serious.

In all honesty, I should have expected this.

Reluctantly, I reached out and took the envelope, holding it close to my chest. I would read it later, when no one was around to see my tears stain the paper.

“Thank you,” I whispered, giving Aunt Jane one last hug against my better judgment. I needed to leave before I changed my mind. “Thank you for taking care of Bree,” I added, voice quiet so only she could hear.

She simply nodded and released me, giving me another sorrowful smile.

I left then, before I could be convinced to stay.

Most people left home for a few common reasons. College, a new job, marriage, or going into the military.

I think my reason was the most selfish of all. Still, I had already made up my mind.

I got into my jeep and took a steadying breath, starting the engine before taking off, my phone calling out directions to me.

The radio played while I drove down the interstate. It was some country station that I quickly turned off. You would be surprised at how many country songs there were about leaving home and missing your family. The irony made me upset.

After about an hour on the road, I realized my gas was at about a quarter of a tank. I didn’t know when I’d come upon the next gas station, so I pulled over at the first one I saw.

I filled my gas tank back up, then ran inside to use the restroom. The rule of thumb is that you can’t go to a gas station or a rest area without getting a snack, so of course I then grabbed a cream soda and a pack of peach rings.

Once I was back in my car, I began to switch the gear to reverse and pull out to get back on the road.

Golden wax caught my eye though, the sunlight from the sunroof of my car making it even shinier than it was in Aunt Jane’s living room.

I hadn’t opened the envelope from Mom and Dad yet. In a way, I was scared to. What if I was right? What if there was something in that letter that confirmed what I was worried about? I didn’t know if my heart could take it if they thought I was selfish.

I know they had written it before that day in June had happened, but what if they had thought all along that I was self centered and awful?

Grabbing the envelope, I decided I needed to just bite the bullet and get it over with. I had made my decision and there was no going back, even if they hated me and thought I was a terrible daughter for not going to Bree’s competition. For not being in that car…

I pulled the wax seal off, taking a shuddering breath. Inside was a white piece of paper, creased in half. I carefully set the envelope to the side and unfolded it slowly.

The letter was in Mom’s handwriting. Dad was severely dyslexic, so every birthday and Christmas card was written by her with sentiment from him.

Pushing away my fears, I began reading.

Dear Leah,

As you know, your Dad and I like to be prepared. God forbid something should ever happen to us, but just in case we want you to know a few things. First of all, we are both so proud of you. We’re proud of the young woman you are, and how you have such a selfless, giving soul. You care so deeply for others. You truly have a beautiful heart. Secondly, take care of your sister. She needs you, and she loves you more than you could ever know. If you take anything away from the life your Dad and I have lived then let it be this: you can’t change the world, but you can change your world.

Love, Mom and Dad.

The letter was short, but then again no letter from them could be long enough when all I wanted was to talk to them one last time. Really talk to them.

I wiped at my eyes furiously, crying like a little kid. I felt like a little kid.

What did they mean by me being selfless? I wasn’t. I was incredibly selfish. I didn’t go to Bree’s competition, I didn’t support her…

It was my fault that Mom and Dad were dead. Realistically, I knew there was nothing I could have done to save them, but it still felt like it was my fault. I still felt guilty. Even if I couldn’t have saved them, maybe I could have told Dad goodbye before he died in the hospital.

That horrible sick sensation returned and it was suddenly as if I couldn’t breathe.

What was I thinking? I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t live in a big city all by myself.

I had to become a nurse, though. I had to atone for my sins by helping others like the doctors and nurses should have helped my family. I had to save lives…right?

Upset and overwhelmed, I threw the envelope. It hit the passenger door, and out fell something small and square. A photograph, I realized.

Brow furrowed, I reached over and picked it up. It was a picture of Bree and I from three Halloweens ago. She was dressed as a pirate, and I was a superhero. We were holding plastic pumpkin buckets that were practically overflowing with all sorts of chocolate bars and sour candies. My free arm was around her, holding her close, and she was gazing up at me.

She had this look in her eye that just made me cry harder. She was looking at me as if I was a real superhero. As if I was her whole world. Before the accident I really was, which was why my decision to not go to her competition made me all the more selfish.

If I had just been in that car then maybe I wouldn’t have had to live with such crushing grief. I missed them so much, and at that moment all I wanted was for them to tell me what to do.

They had, though, in a way…

They wouldn’t have wanted me to run from my feelings. From Bree. They would want me to work it out with her. To reconcile. To not blame myself for living.

I needed to live. If not for myself, then for them.

You can’t change the world, but you can change your world. That’s what their letter had said. Their last piece of advice.

Becoming a nurse, fleeing from my responsibilities…it wouldn’t fix anything, and it wouldn’t bring my parents back either. Staying and taking care of Bree, loving my sister despite my faults, doing my best…forgiving myself. That’s what I had to do. That’s what my parents would have wanted me to do.

Wiping the remaining tears away I pulled back onto the road. This time, though, I was heading towards home, not away from it.