My fingers pick at the thick, cracked skin on my knuckles. It’s been so long since I’ve done this. Not long enough.

I inhale slowly, taking a small step towards the building. My ribs won’t expand. Why is my breathing so shallow? They need to move, they need to let me breathe, I need to breathe, what is going on, why can’t I do this, why am I doing this—

Stop. Stop, stop.

My fingernails are digging into the skin on my hands. Carefully, I peel my hands away from each other and look at the damage. Small beads of red bloom in the crescents left behind from my nails.

For a moment, tears gloss over my eyes and the world becomes a blur of fear. The sound of my thickening breath rushes through my ears.

I blink the tears away. Stop. Calm down, Ruby. 

I try to swallow the ever-present lump in my throat. And I start walking. Because I can do this. I can do this. You can do this. 

My hand reaches out, grasping the gleaming copper handle at the entrance of the building. I stare at my hand. It’s covered with red, puffy fingernail marks. I did that?

I pull my sweatshirt sleeve over my hands and enter the building.

The receptionist looks up from behind a large, white, half-circle desk. The lights in here are bright, and the room smells overly clean. My hands, hidden by the desk as I step up to it, find each other and start picking.

The receptionist checks me in with a smile. I don’t like the smile. Smiles say that good things are about to happen. They say that everything is okay. Oh, how wrong they are.

I sit in a waiting chair. My eyes stare blankly at the floor. Thoughts flood my mind, a deluge of doubt. Why are you here? What makes you think that they’ll believe you? They don’t want you here. They won’t help you. Just leave. Just leave. Just leave.

“Ruby Histler?”

Stand, Ruby. 

Move, Ruby. This is for Noemi. You have to take care of her.

I’m led by a short woman through a maze of brown-carpeted halls. Black and white pictures of various people that I’m sure nobody in this building knows, hang on the walls, staring me down as I follow the woman.

“Dr. Kusef, Ruby Histler is here to see you.”

Dr. Kusef looks up from his desk and gives me—how comforting!—a smile. “Welcome, Ruby. Have a seat on the couch or chair, whatever you want.”

The lady closes the door behind me, preventing any last-minute escapes. I take a deep breath and make myself move to the large chair. 

Dr. Kusef always offers the “couch or chair,” at the beginning of sessions. I always choose the chair. The couch is too open.

The chair easily engulfs me as I ease into it, hiding my hands deeper inside of my sleeves. My nails dig into my palms as Dr. Kusef starts to speak.

“Well, I’m glad to see you here again, Ruby. Is there anything that you’d like to start off with? Anything that has changed?”

I shake my head slightly. Why am I here? What am I doing?

Dr. Kusef’s office always smells of fresh aloe. There’s too much of it in the air. It suffocates me as I breathe in.

Kusef nods at me. “All right, then. How about you tell me why you decided to come back. I know you left because you didn’t feel like therapy was working out for you.” His eyes bore into mine. Why do therapists stare so intently? I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Clear my throat. Pick at my skin underneath the sleeves.

“Um, well, you’re right. Therapy wasn’t really… working for me. At all, but— no. But that’s not why I’m here.” My voice shakes as I speak. He is watching me like a hawk. Is he waiting for me to slip up? Can he see my hands moving? Can he see my teeth biting my tongue? The words inside my head get faster, shaky.

Keep breathing. Keep breathing!

“It’s because of my sister,” I push out. “I think she needs help.”

Dr. Kusef leans back in his chair and looks down at his notepad. Scribbles something quickly. Looks back at me. Can he see my heart thumping? “Is this your younger sister? Noemi?”

I nod quickly.

“Is she here?”

So many questions. “No, she’s in school. I didn’t want to bring her unless I was sure she needed help.”

“And what makes you think that she needs help?” he asks gently.

I open my mouth. My words are gone. Images fly through my head. A small boy, mouth wailing wide, eyes closed, face scrunched. His clammy hands wrap around my brain and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. 

Kusef won’t believe me. He won’t listen.

I was a fool to think that Kusef would believe me when I told him that Noemi was seeing ghosts, too.

“Ruby? Can you answer the question or do you need a moment?”

I jump and freeze, my gaze slowly sliding up to meet the doctor’s.

“The boy. Do you remember the boy?” I stammer.

Yes. The boy. Skin tight on his ribs. Tears streaking the dirt on his face.

Noemi’s girl. Hair floating around her. Lips blue with cold. Whales caressing her skin.

Kusef’s lips thin and he quickly hides it. He looks down at his notes. “Yes, I remember the boy. Are you still seeing him?”

“Noemi sees a girl,” I say, avoiding his question.

“You think your sister is seeing a ghost, too?”

Yes, Ruby. I nod.

“Has she been showing signs of depression?”

“This isn’t schizophrenia!” I say harshly. I’ve heard all those questions before. Ghosts aren’t hallucinations.

Dr. Kusef sighs. “Ruby, I don’t know how to help you any more than I did last time you were here.”

“If you would just believe me.” I plead. “Noemi isn’t old enough to deal with something like this.”

“I am not trained to take care of ghosts,” Dr. Kusef answers. “I’m sorry, Ruby, but you know this. I can help you deal with hallucinations. I can help you deal with depression. But if you won’t tell me what you really need help with, then I can’t do anything.”

My heart is screaming. Tears fill my eyes. “I have told you what I need help with, you just won’t believe me! I can deal with these ghosts, but Noemi is five years old! Please, I don’t want her—” I stop.

I don’t want her having panic attacks when she sees something move in the dark. I don’t want her thinking a starving boy is following her down the street. I don’t want her to hear his cries for help and I don’t want her to turn to give him food, only to see a small, dead, body lying transparent on the concrete. I don’t want her picking her hands like a sparrow.

I bend inside myself, my shoulders shaking as tears start to stream down my face. Dr. Kusef’s warm hand falls on the back of my neck as if comforting me. “No, don’t touch me.” I jerk up with a gasp and wipe my eyes. “I’m fine.”

The doctor’s eyes latch onto my hands.

No, he can’t see those. He won’t let me leave.

I hastily pull my sleeves back over my hand, a cloak hiding my wounds.

Go, Ruby. Go, Ruby. Go—

I start to stand but Dr. Kusef speaks and my feet seem to freeze underneath the weight of my body. “Have you been having panic attacks lately? You can’t keep hurting yourself like this. Please sit down and I’ll listen to you and we’ll try to figure out how to help you control your emotions.”

“I can control my emotions just fine,” I bite out, although we both know I can’t. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m just going to leave.”

“Please reconsider, Ruby. I can help you if you let me,” Kusef says, putting his hand on my shoulder and trying to catch me with his eyes. Aloe rattles down my throat as I take a shaking breath in.

Boundaries, Ruby.

“Please let go of me.”

His hand immediately drops. “I apologize.”

I don’t look at him, my eyes burning with tears as I start to walk out the door. Thoughts of Noemi scream at me to go back. But I can’t. 

My hands find each other as my mind leads my numb feet through the halls. Pick, pick, pick.

The receptionist offers a half-hearted, “Have a good day!” as I stumble out the door and break into a run. I’m halfway down the block before I remember my car, alone in the parking lot of the office in an attempt to keep me from chickening out of going.

I slow. And stop. Beside me, a fence surrounds an apartment complex. I fall to my knees on the grass beside the gate and lean against it. My chest heaves; whether from exhaustion or fear, I don’t know.

I shouldn’t have gone. I knew it would end horribly. Did I have a choice, though? I had a chance, for Noemi. And I just blew it.

Noemi. A few weeks ago, she ran into my room in the middle of the night, spouting off a depiction of a small girl with seaweed in her ears and large whales encircling her.

Then Noemi had said that she heard a voice calling the girl’s name. “Angelica.”

Noemi hears her ghost. They speak with each other. I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that.

But Noemi does.

Angelica lived in Italy with her widower father, Benvolio. Being a fisherman, he would take her on many fishing trips. Angelica loved to hear tales of her father’s time fishing in Australia, where he saw the beautiful spots of a whale shark. Angelica vowed that one day, she would become a whale shark.

One day, Benvolio’s life was turned around. Angelica’s was lost.

Now Angelica swims with the whale sharks. And she beckons my sister to the water’s edge, luring her with tales of beautiful reefs, of days spent gliding through the waves.

A sudden panic grips me. I need to get to Noemi. What if her kindergarten class had been let out early and I didn’t know? What if she saw Angelica during recess? Where is Noemi? I need to get back to her, she’s not safe.

Run, Ruby.

Using the gate, I push myself into a stumbling sprint.

I reach my car and crawl inside, pushing away thoughts of Dr. Kusef being able to see me through his office window. I start to put the car into reverse, flicking my wild hair away from my face as I look through the rearview mirror—

And see a small Indian boy standing behind my car. He wears only enough clothes to cover his bottom half to his knees. One sinewy arm stretches across his tiny stomach, the other reaches towards me.

I look away from the mirror with a strangled gasp. My head falls onto the rim of my steering wheel and I bang my forehead one, two, three, four, five, six—

“Go away!” I scream to the boy, my voice cracking as I fling my head up to look at him again in the mirror. 

But he’s gone.

I let out another hoarse scream of frustration, hysteria ripping up my mind. I need to get out of here. 

Remember Noemi. Where is she?

My thoughts speed along with my car as I hurtle in the direction of Noemi’s school.

When I jump out of my car and rush up to the school doors, I find them locked. My heart contracts as I spin and look wildly around for my sister. Was I late to pick her up? Did she wait for me outside and get kidnapped? Did she go to a friend—

“Excuse me, miss?”

I whirl around to see a middle-aged woman walking up to me. A look of concern is plastered across her face as she takes in my red-rimmed eyes and crazy hair and tear-stained cheeks and quick, shallow breaths and—

“Where is my sister?” I ask her, trying to keep my voice under control.

“What is her name, dear?”

“Noemi Histler,” I manage. “She goes to kindergarten here. I… got caught up with some things and didn’t see the time and I don’t know where she is now and her teacher isn’t here—”

“Slow down, honey. Goodness, you look dreadful. I don’t teach kindergarten, but I can get you to her classroom. What is her teacher’s name?”

“Mrs. Ricks. But the doors are locked. She isn’t here.”

“Oh, no. They’ve just locked the doors because they aren’t technically ‘open’ anymore. Most teachers should still be inside, though. Here.” She reaches for a card attached to the lanyard dangling from her neck and presses the card to the door. With a beep, it unlocks and she swings it open.

“Thank you so much,” I rush, pushing my breath out in one swoosh. “I can go from here. I know where her room is.” I leave the lady and move down the hallways as fast as I can until Noemi’s classroom appears. Peeking through the slitted window on the door, I spot a young woman sitting at a desk in the far corner of the room, her back turned to me.

I open the door. “Mrs. Ricks! Have you seen Noemi?”

Mrs. Ricks jumps and turns to me. “Hello, Ruby,” she says warmly. “Noemi went home with her friend Braydee.”

Braydee Pone. Noemi’s real friend. She lives a few houses down from us. I close my eyes and lean against the doorway.

Mrs. Ricks stands. “Did you not know where she was this whole time? I’m so sorry! If I had known that you weren’t aware, I would have called you—”

“No, no, it’s okay. Thank you, Mrs. Ricks.” Then, I turn and leave as quickly as I can, praying that Mrs. Ricks didn’t see the glisten of exhausted tears in my eyes.

***
My fault, my fault, my fault. I lean against my steering wheel, chin resting on the rim. My gaze hangs out the windshield, focusing on the house in front of me, taking in the sad state of it. The grass is long and uncut, the flowers drooping in their weed-ridden beds. A screen hangs limply from the door, having been broken for months.

Our house looks dead. And really, it is dead.

One year ago, it was… well, not exactly alive. But it was nice. Dad kept up the yard, using the weekends to rope me into helping him weed the garden. Mom made sure the blinds were open every day, and the inside door was always open, letting the warm spring breeze drift through the screen door.

It felt perfect.

It wasn’t. June came and the boy along with it. I started falling into a deep hole, unable to drag myself out of it.

Parents never understand what to do when their kid gets mentally sick. It scares the heck out of them, and all they can do is try to be there for the kid.

Sometimes even that doesn’t help. And once Mom and Dad figured that out, they turned me over to therapy. Obviously, that didn’t work, either.

And then everything exploded and went down in flames. The tires. Then the car. Mom. Dad. 

Why it was okay for an eighteen-year-old to live alone with a four-year-old, I don’t know. The only thing people question is why we’re so far apart in age. 2 miscarriages do that to a family. 

Being nineteen with a five-year-old doesn’t get easier. It doesn’t get better. In fact, now, only a month before June, everything has gotten exponentially worse.

I open my eyes. The steering wheel is wet, as are my cheeks. I can barely stand to look at our house. I’ve let it go into ruin. I’ve let myself spiral out of control. I’ve let Noemi show up to kindergarten in a beaten up Subaru Justy, waving to her sister who can barely stand to get her shoes on to drive her sister to school, let alone change out of her pajamas. I’ve let Noemi believe that life is normal the way it is. 

And now she’s seeing ghosts. Like me.

When will it become too much for her, too?

Braydee’s mom picks up after my third call. She assures me that, yes, Noemi is with her. Do I need anything? Do I want her to send Noemi home with dinner?

It’s all I can do to keep my relief from pouring through the phone and strangling Mrs. Pone. I start to turn down her offers for help, but she won’t hear it.

Noemi skips through the door at 6:00, holding a large plate covered in tinfoil. Before I even get off of the couch, the plate is on the counter and Noemi is on my legs. She holds her hands in front of my face. “Braydee painted my nails, Ruby! Aren’t they pretty?”

I smile and take her hands in mine, pulling them away from my face to get a proper look at her glittery, green-slathered nails. “Wow, Noe! I love it! Did you choose the color?”

Noemi grins and nods vigorously. “And the nail polish had glitter to make it pretty. Do you see?”

“I do see,” I answer with a laugh, squeezing her hands and letting them drop before she can notice the puffy marks from my nails. “What’s on the plate?”

Noemi turns, having seemingly forgotten all about the dinner, and scrambles off of me. “Oh! Pancakes! With syrup.”

This makes my smile widen enough to feel real. Noemi loves maple syrup to a fault, something that Mrs. Pone knows well. It doesn’t take long for my eyes and nose to tingle, finally with tears of appreciation.

Our neighbors are kind to us. Mom and Dad were always kind to them, and now the neighbors try their best to return the favor by taking Noemi to or from school when I can’t, or bringing the occasional meal over. For a while, one of our neighbors would even bring his lawn mower over and cut our grass, even though we have our own mower to do it with. He stopped coming during the winter. And never came back.

I stand and walk to the counter, lifting the tinfoil covering the plate. The smell of eight warm pancakes wafts to my nose as Noemi grabs the sticky jar of maple syrup and holds it up to her eyes, looking through the syrup at the kitchen light. “Pretty.” 

I open the fridge. “Be careful. Do you want some scrambled eggs? I can make them if you set up the table.”

Noemi slowly sets the jar back on the counter, licking syrup residue from her fingers. “Okay!”

I nod and pull out the carton. Five eggs left. I close the fridge, not wanting the reminder of how tight we are, and becoming exponentially more grateful for Mrs. Pone’s generosity.

Setting a pan on the stove and turning the burner to medium heat, I turn around and lean against the counter, my gaze reaching outside the window built over our sink. 

Noemi hums as she reaches for the dish cabinet and grabs three plates. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She opens the silverware drawer and picks up one, two, three forks. Puzzled, I turn back to the stove and busy myself with the eggs.

Crack. Sizzle. Crack. Sizzle.

Noemi reaches for some cups.

Crack. One cup. Sizzle. Two. Crack. Three. Sizzle.

“Noe.”

She looks up. “Yeah?”

“Why are you setting out three of everything? Is one of your friends coming over?”

“No,” Noemis says with a big head shake. I wait. She smiles up at me, clearly wanting me to guess why she’s setting the table like this.

“All right. Is See-Saw eating with us?”

There have been many occasions where the stuffed giraffe has joined our dinner conversations.

“Nope!”

My heart starts squeezing in on itself. “Is…” My mind is blank, refusing to entertain the thoughts that are pressing against it. I just stare at Noemi, worry chewing my insides. I try again. “Is… um…”

Ask, Ruby.

I squat down to look in my sister’s eyes. “Are you setting a place for Angelica?”

If Noemi reads the horror in my face when she nods, she doesn’t seem to understand its meaning.

She starts to skip around me, holding her hands out to place the cups on the table. I grab her arms. “Noemi, you will not set the table for a ghost.” I pull my sister back around to face me and look into her wide eyes. “Angelica is not your friend. She does not get to eat with us, and I will not let her sit at our table, and we are not letting her into our home. Do you understand?”

Noemi’s lip shakes.

“Come here,” I pull her into a hug, my racing heart relaxing as her small body presses against mine. “I’ll help you put the extra dishes away.”

“But Ruby,” whispers Noemi, pulling away from me and giving me a teary, hopeful stare. “Angelica’s already here.”