I never told her.
So I stayed silent. I stayed still. And when the power flickered back on an hour later—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant click of a lamp—she drew her hand back slowly, turned onto her side, and kept sleeping.
I found her on the wide screened-in porch. The lake beyond was black glass, and the only sound was the rhythmic, quiet scrape of a branch against the screen. Lena lay on the long wicker chaise, one arm thrown over her head, the other resting across her stomach. She was wearing a thin white tank top and shorts. Her mouth was slightly open. Asleep. -ENG- Sleeping Cousin -RJ353254-
Minutes passed. Or an hour. Time had turned syrupy. A moth bumbled against the screen, frantic and soft. I watched her breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm began to sync with my own heart.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because the moment I spoke, the spell would break. She would wake, and the knowing would begin, and the summer would become something I had to apologize for. I never told her
A loon called across the water. Long and low and sad. Lena’s fingers twitched, then curled slightly, as if she were holding onto something in a dream.
You are there.
I froze.
My cousin, Lena, was two years older, three inches taller, and infinitely more dangerous than me. She spoke in fragments of French she’d picked up from old movies, wore a silver ring on her thumb, and could hold a cigarette in a way that made the act of burning tobacco look like philosophy. Our families had rented the same lake house for a week, a truce disguised as a vacation, and on the third night, the power went out. And when the power flickered back on an