The Sister-in-Law: An absolutely gripping summer thriller for 2021, Pamela Crane [reading eggs books .txt] 📗

so real. Resting in the crook of my elbow was her head, so perfect and kissable and pink. Frantic arms pumped the air, and squishy legs wriggled like she would take off running if I let go. I stood with her in her nursery; I recognized the scene. It was the day I had given birth. The ghost pains between my legs lingered from pushing her out, delivering her at home in the shower while Ben held me upright and the midwife caught the baby as she fell.

Double-checking the nursery, everything was as it should be. Crisp white crib in the corner. Clean linen scent in the air from the freshly washed bedding. Bold, uppercase letters with pastel polka dots painted across the wall: KIRA.

The down of her red hair – just like mine – tickled my forearm in wispy strands, like a ghost’s fingers playing with it. She was here, so very tangible … and yet not. My arms felt light. No, something was wrong.

I blinked, and I couldn’t feel the weight of her anymore, only the mirage. I pawed at the fading image, wondering, How did I conjure my baby here? How do I get her back? But my questions disappeared along with her form into empty space.

‘No!’ I cried, my arms cradling nothingness.

‘Kira!’ I screamed, but my voice only echoed back at me.

Another blink. The nursery was gone. Instead I stood in my backyard, the place I had called home. The pool was calm like ice, unmoved by the breeze. Carefully I stepped toward it, watching my reflection in the water follow me. A splash across the pool broke my image. I ran to the other edge, searching the water for the source. My reflection swirled beneath the water’s chaos.

My face in the water morphed into something else. Someone else.

‘Kira?’ I called out.

But it wasn’t her creating the churning. It was Jackson, with two-year-old Kira lying limply in his arms. He handed me her still body, then looked up at me, blood seeping from black eyes tainted with darkness.

‘What did you do, Jackson?’ I screamed and begged for an answer, but he replied with silence. Then he walked away, his body dripping wet, leaving tiny footprints across the patio, as I held my dead child in my arms and wept.

***

Morning was the exhale after a night-long held breath. As the streetlamps died and the horizon came to life, another nightmare ended as dawn chased it away. Covered in sweat and tears, I bolted upright from under the bedding, overwhelmed with relief and fear. I didn’t know where one emotion began and the other ended. It wasn’t real … and yet it was. I had held her – Kira, the child I had lost. The toddler I still mourned a year after her death. She was a part of me that I would forever mourn, a broken part that could never be fixed.

The damp covers twisted around my legs and I kicked myself free. My pillow smelled rancid with perspiration. I sniffed my armpits, grimacing at the oniony odor. Another night terror, another load of sweaty sheets. I wondered if the dreams would ever stop, or at least fade. But if they did, would Kira’s face fade with them?

The worst part about losing Kira wasn’t the gaping void in my life since her drowning. It wasn’t the haunting memories following me like specters. It wasn’t even the endless daily grief I felt waking each morning missing her, or the dread of another exhausting night dreaming of her. Such things were the nature of death. They were to be expected, balanced by the hope of seeing her in heaven. I believed in our future reunion, I truly did with every part of my devastated soul, and that faith was my saving grace. Without that promise of eternity together, I had nothing. Her death cut me deep, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

No, the worst part wasn’t being left behind. The worst part was that losing Kira cost me my love for my son. Missing her, crying for her, hating the void of her turned my love for Jackson sour. My love for my daughter caused my hate for my son. What mother says or feels such a thing? A monster! It was unnatural and grotesque. But it was true, no matter how horrific the reality was. I could never forgive my son for what had happened that day. For what he had done, even in his innocence.

I had never told Jackson he couldn’t take his baby sister swimming. I never imagined he would pick up his two-year-old sister in his tiny arms, carry her into the pool, then drop her. He didn’t know better; he was so young. In my head I blamed myself for not anticipating it, for not watching them that day, for not putting up a fence before it was too late, for not protecting my children. But my heart, well, it resented Jackson deeply.

That inability to forgive – that cost me everything. My marriage. My relationship with my kids. My ability to feel or heal. The only thing it hadn’t cost me was my capacity to function. That knack to compartmentalize I got from my mother.

Forcing myself out of bed, I grabbed the bedding and balled it up, then tossed it in the laundry basket. I opened the window blinds and was greeted with happy sunshine flowing into the room. Bake me with your happiness, oh sun! I wanted it, but I couldn’t have it.

With robotic routine, I peeked in Elise and Jackson’s room to find them still asleep, then collected their dirty clothes, adding them to the pile. It was amazing how much we could accomplish with the weight of the world on our shoulders. Heck, three days after Kira’s death I was already grocery shopping, as if a trip to the store could reset my life. I hadn’t thought to avoid the diaper aisle, and