I would never tell anyone, but I missed when Libby was sick. When she became bedridden, Mama said there was “nothing left to do but pray.” I wondered if that was the truth— if the doctors had truly exhausted all their options. But I knew better than to ask, to question Mama or God.

      And pray Mama did. I would shrink into the shadows and study her. The way she knelt by Libby’s bed with her head craned to the heavens and her hands clasped so tightly that her fingernails left marks in her skin, mumbling as silent tears lined her cheeks.

     Most nights, I would tuck myself away in the hall until she had finished her rosaries. When she was done, she would smooth Libby’s sheets and plant a soft kiss upon her forehead. Sometimes when I peered in, I joined Mama. I wiped away her tears and prayed beside her. On these nights, we never spoke to each other— both just to God.

✦✦✦

     Even though we had been in town for four years, people still always mistook me for her. It was exhausting and embarrassing— the way girls at school would flock around me, talking a mile a minute, only to quickly realize I wasn’t their savior the second I opened my mouth. While on the surface, Libby and I were identical, she had clearly won the personality gene in the twin lottery. She was a ball of wild, magnetic energy. Everyone wanted to sit with her, or be her friend, or date her. And Libby paid them no mind. She never cared what people thought of her, even if it was only the best. Libby was tiara-deep in the Prom Queen campaign trail when she got diagnosed. When her condition “went public” I heard girls mumbling in the halls about how they wouldn’t stand a chance compared to the pity vote.

✦✦✦

     I received the news from Mama as I was working on stage crew for the Spring Musical. We were doing “Bye Bye Birdie.” I had sent her to voicemail three times. I remember being pissed at her— she knew I was in the middle of a show, after all. But, she texted me, urging me to pick up. For whatever reason, I just knew it was something serious.

✦✦✦

     I had never known quiet until Libby was sick. At first, I found it unsettling— the absence of her blaring snoozed alarms in the morning and squeaky violin notes in the afternoon. Libby always hated the violin. She endlessly begged Mama to let her quit— a cause that I firmly backed, if only for the sake of my poor ears. But anytime she brought the subject up, Mama reminded her that “colleges are looking for young ladies who can do more than win a plastic crown.” Defeated, Libby would pick up her bow and get back to work.

     While the house was surely quieter without Libby’s pitchy rendition of Concerto in D Major, it was more than that. When she got sick, a heavy melancholy silence fell upon the house, the kind that no one dares to break. Slowly, this quiet became familiar— regular. We grew accustomed to a house lacking its most vibrant tenant. Everything seemed to move slower when Libby was sick. In a way, it was peaceful.

✦✦✦

     When Libby got sick, girls stopped mistaking me for her and bombarding me in the hallway. The first few weeks back people whispered— “sick sister,” and all. But, high school gossip is a revolving door. By winter break, Libby was old news, even to her most devoted minions, and for the first time in my life, I was a nobody. It was all I had ever wanted. When I was little, I used to pray for just one day where the girls at school wouldn’t refer to me as “Libby’s sister” and the boys wouldn’t laugh as they “accidentally” called me the wrong name. A day free from the twin jokes that Libby always egged on. She never understood the way the spotlight made me squirm. How could she, when she basked in it our entire lives?

     Maybe I was a terrible person. Maybe I prayed too hard— selfishly willed her pain into existence. Maybe I shouldn’t have enjoyed watching people slowly lose interest in her or my resulting irrelevance. But I was finally blending in at school— it was easy when the only thing that had made you stick out just— disappeared.

     But, maybe I wasn’t so terrible for liking her illness, that is because Dad started to come around again. I know parents always say they love their children equally, but when we were young, Libby always had Mama. Dad, however, was wrapped around my finger— my partner in crime. Then, when we were twelve, he left.

✦✦✦

     It was like my whole world had rearranged. Of course, they fought, and I wasn’t blind to it. But didn’t everyone’s parents bicker now and again? Libby seemed to brush the whole thing off, high on the idea of two Christmases.

       “You know what that means? Double the presents,” she had said to me, starry-eyed the night we found out that Mom was moving us out of town.

      “I’m going to miss it here. This house, our friends...” I’d said, solemnly.

      “A house is just a house. We have each other,” Libby had said, squeezing my hand tight. I knew she was right, but that house was the one where we were a family— the four of us. I didn’t want to lose that.

✦✦✦

     Now Dad was back and our family of four, somewhat, restored. He would make the hour-long drive after work a few times a week to come check-in on Libby. Mama, Dad, and I would gather around the dining room table and eat together— casseroles, pot roast, pasta, you name it. After dinner, Dad would help me look online at colleges.

      “I think you have a real shot at most of ‘em,” he would muse with pride. It felt nice to have someone in my corner and to, almost, be a real family again.

      Months passed like this— I faded into the background of the social scene, Mama and I adapted to the silence, and we all began to “play house.” Until one day, things changed. Mama was out grocery shopping. Dad and I were playing Scrabble on the living room carpet when we heard the gentle creak of the staircase.

      We both shot our heads up, and there was Libby, slowly shuffling down the steps as she clung to the railing. Dad stomped over our Scrabble board as he sprinted toward her, sending letter pieces flying in every which direction.

✦✦✦

      Slowly, she started to get better. The doctors couldn’t explain it. Mama called it a “miracle.” As she got stronger, Libby began to return to her normal self, only now she was the poster child for our Church— a sign of God’s love and proof that prayer worked. People I had never even spoken to on Sundays started stopping by the house just to talk to Libby or hold her hand in hopes that they, too, could be “blessed.” Soon, they started coming from all over.

      Libby basked in the attention. Plus, with all the time her visits were taking up, there was no room left for violin practice. Mama let her drop the whole thing completely.

I guess she figured that Libby would have no trouble getting into college with “Saint” plastered on her application.

       Dad stopped coming around as much— once Libby got better and all the fuss started. They had never said it, but I knew the Church was part of the reason they split. I could see the way Dad flinched the first time Mama let visitors come to the house, to gawk at Libby like she was a museum exhibit. I never liked when we had visitors. They always caused commotion. I missed the calm and sharing it with Dad.

      I was anxiously dreading the day that Libby would come back to school. The hallways had already begun to buzz with murmurs of her name again. I felt like an undercover agent who was about to be found out. 

✦✦✦

       One day, when no visitors came, Mama asked me to go to the Church with her to pray. We nestled ourselves into a pew and knelt. I felt the warmth of sunlight grazing my skin as it peaked in through the stained-glass windows. At first, my mind was blank. For the first time in years, I didn’t know what to talk to God about. I had spent so long praying for Libby, for her to get better, that I never came up with any other requests. Praying for myself had felt selfish before. Now, I was beginning to think I wanted to be. 

       I interlocked my fingers in a tight grip and prayed. Make her sick again. I prayed harder than ever before— with more resolve than when Mama and Dad split or when Libby was sick. Please. My nails dug into the skin of my hands as I screamed inside my mind to God. Make her sick again. I shouted so loud that he could not ignore me. Amen. 

       I released my hands and a deep exhale. I fixed my eyes upon the altar and felt weightless for a brief moment. Then, the guilt began to creep under my flesh.