The nit nurse combed your hair gently, so gently, said you could keep the elastics because you’d been such a good girl.
School dinners. I could relax at school, knowing Marianne was at nursery, safe and warm.
The little ones had their own special peg to hang their coats on. She loved it there.
It wasn’t long after the picnic that Mummy found out Mrs. Rose had been asking about my bruises.
We were homeschooled after that, all day every day —no more escaping from nine till four, Monday to Friday.
Worse and worse, quicker and quicker, hotter and hotter, fire.
I’d brought it on myself as usual, my own stupid fault, stupid Eleanor, and, worst of all, I’d dragged Marianne into it too.
She’d done nothing wrong. She’d never done anything wrong. Dr. Temple pushed the tissues toward me and I wiped the tears from my cheeks.
“You mentioned Marianne a lot there,” she said gently, “when you were talking about your day-to-day life.”
I was ready to say it out loud. “She’s my sister,” I said. We sat for a moment and I let the words crystallize.
There she was: Marianne. My little sister. My missing piece, my absent friend.
The tears were coursing down my cheeks now, and Maria let me sob until I was ready to speak.
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