Fiona
<<2003-03-17 - 3:31 a.m.>>

Not really. My sister has written a story for her creative writing class, which I, incorrigible snoop, have duly read. In this story, my sister, straight-A student and dutiful daughter, calls herself Fiona.

Fiona is victimized and never says a word. Her therapist kisses her and she bites down and pretends nothing is happening. Fiona is pigeonholed and takes it. Her parents think of her as the good child, the straight-A student, the dutiful daughter. The golden girl. They discuss politics with her older sister, but they don't ask Fiona what she thinks.

No one ever asks Emma what she thinks. Emma hates our family therapist "as a person" and does not say why.

The story is called "Auto-Pilot" in reference to the way Fiona feels her days are endless. Fiona forgets days. She loses time. She glides through on auto-pilot.

My sister is hurting and I am afraid that there is nothing I can do to help her.

I think I need to talk to her about the discussions I've been having with Zibby about the posibilities of sexual abuse.

I said the other day on the phone, I don't want anything bad to happen to you and by "anything" I meant both "an eating disorder" and "anything at all." I don't want anything bad to happen to her. Ever.

I remember what I said in family therapy that day while I was home for winter break, the day I in some blind drive for I'm-not-sure-what forged furiously ahead and told Emma that I know she still has to protect our parents, but she doesn't have to protect me anymore by being the good daughter, the perfect little girl.

The story was written during my winter break. The last paragraph:

Fiona raised her eyes to meet her sister's and for a moment they were completely equal. It was as if they had both laid down their cards and they had both been bluffing. She let out a tired breath and leaned against her sister's chest. Lizzy wrapped her arms around her, and gently rocked her back and forth. As Fiona surrendered completely to her sister's embrace, the warmth of their secret understanding melted the cold grip that the whir of Dr. Newman's ceiling fan had had on her greedy mind.

What hits me is greedy mind, because that is so completely something that I would think or say or write or all of the above.

Dear God, don't let my sister follow in my footsteps. Please give her something better. Please give her confidence and ease, please give her the willingness to trust herself, to tell people the truth, please give her the tools to tear down her walls and not need to build any more.

My sister does not deserve this. She's only fifteen, she's only fifteen, and already she thinks her mind is greedy, already she can feel herself going cold.

And all I can do is sit in her room and cry.

They lay down their cards. I will lay down my cards. I think that might be all I can do. I will hold her. I will tell the truth.

<< - >>