Page 53 of Earthly Ties

The tears are falling from Esther’s eyes now. Each one drips fire down my neck.

Is that what happened to me? I went through the wrong door and ended up dead? Then why do I have a vague memory of reaching for Esther’s closet door?

“You’re still there, you know,” she whispers. “In the dreamland. Your body is anyway. You haven’t woken up. Every night, it’s like you’re in stasis. You’re not breathing or anything, but you’re not dead. I’ve tried to wake you up so many times, but it never works. I even tried the Sleeping Beauty method once. I felt like such a creep, because I was basically kissing a comatose version of you.”

“You’re not a creep.” I reach up to brush my thumbs against her cheeks. Her blue irises glow against her red-rimmed eyes. “Can…can I kiss you now? Not to fix anything. Just because I want to.”

I shouldn’t ask this. She’s crying. I’m dead. I should not kiss her. Not anymore.

But I can’t help myself. My heart is too full not to crave her. I didn’t think anyone cared. And here was Esther the whole time—sweet, lovely, and crying for me. My dream girl, who noticed how often I watered my plant and asked me questions about myself, even when I never answered. Who has sat vigil next to my dream body every night and tried to save me. How can I not want to kiss her?

With a nod, Esther leans in, her body pressing down against mine. Her nose touches my cheek, nudging gently to tilt my chin up.

Her Life doesn’t burn when our lips touch. If it does, I am too overwhelmed to notice. To awestruck to care. Our kiss is warm and soft and tastes like vanilla, just like I remember.

My tears fall heavy with regret.

“You’re crying.” Esther strokes my cheek now, looking into my eyes with worried brows. “Please don’t cry. You’re so beautiful.”

I can’t answer. Sorrow chokes my throat, drowning me with regret too deep to fight. We could have had this when I was alive. We could have had each other. But now it’s impossible, and I have no choice but to give into the depths where my choices have led me.

As Esther and I look at each other, tears in our eyes, I lose my focus and pass through her.

Esther lets out a quiet yelp when she falls into me. “You still there?”

The burn is back. It hurts worse, now that I know how sweet the pain can feel. And yet, I don’t even attempt to move away from her, to give us some distance. I stay within her, every nerve scalding, because pain is preferable to raw despair. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Good.” As if sensing she’s laying in me, Esther rolls over. Instead of drowning, instead of fire, my shuddering inhale takes in only jasmine-scented air. “Like, I know I’m a good kisser, but I’d be a little hurt if you moved on so quickly after I gave up the goods.”

Aching from the inside out, I can’t help but laugh. I giggle helplessly, lying next to Esther on her pink duvet. Despite the dreary rain, and the hopelessness of my existence, my East always lightens my mood.

Anger

There are many days where Esther wonders why she bothers. It’s plain as day that her family wants nothing to do with her anymore. Sixteen years ago, after her younger sister naively outed her, her parents kicked her out. And yet, Esther has kept the lines of communication open. Just in case anyone wants to reach out. She’s never changed her cell phone number, she calls for every special event, and she checks her childhood email account religiously.

Year after year, birthday after birthday, her calls ring through to voicemail. The only consolation is that her parents haven’t blocked her number, even if they actively choose to ignore her call.

They never changed the landline number, nor her parents’ cell numbers. The voicemails still have the same messages as always. Her dad’s is terse and to the point, telling the caller to leave their name and number, and he’ll call them back. Her mom’s cheerfully tells her caller that she is so sorry to miss them and to have a blessed day. The house phone still has Esther and all of her younger siblings reciting in unison: “This is the Voigt residence. Please leave a message!” but which devolves into shrieking giggles from her baby brother by the end.

On the occasions when she lets her imagination get away from her, deep into dangerous territory, Esther wonders if she had more siblings whom she will never know. Her mom consistently caught baby fever every few years, but Esther had hoped that by finally having the boy they’d always wanted, that would end. Esther wasn’t around long enough to confirm her theory.

If new Voigt siblings exist, do they ever ask who calls to wish everyone a happy birthday, except them? Did her parents parentify the next youngest sister—the one who outed her—after they kicked out their built-in babysitter, their passive, responsible, obedient-in-all-ways-but-one eldest daughter?

Are any of her siblings queer too? From what Esther’s seen online, her sisters all seem deeply entrenched in the trad wife pipeline, like Esther would have been, if she’d been pushed into marrying the pastor’s skeezy son (he married a different Voigt sister instead). If any of them are like her, are they afraid of the consequences of coming out, because of what happened to Esther? Or perhaps her parents learned better for their remaining children? She wonders if her siblings are raising their own kids with the same expectations that they were raised with, with the same values that had gotten Esther excommunicated from her own family.

Growing up, Esther always tried to protect her siblings from the pressure she faced as the oldest, the role model. In the hopelessness of her pox fever, Esther looked her siblings up on social media, but her friend or follow requests were still ignored. Not that she expected anything different. After all, her sister is turning twenty-six today. She’s married with a couple of kids—old enough to make decisions for herself—yet she has never reached out to Esther.

All of her siblings were too young to have their own cell phones when Esther left home, so like every year, she’s forced to call the landline. That message recorded long ago—full of laughter and innocence and sibling love—is what Esther expects to hear again today when she calls for her sister’s birthday.

Instead, on the second ring, a man answers. “Hello?”

Esther freezes, her breath catching in her chest. “Dad?”

“Oh, God, I hope not! I haven’t had sex with a woman since high school! Who is this?”

Esther’s heart sinks. Unless a lot changed in the past sixteen years, her father would never use the Lord’s name in vain. Nor is he likely to be a flamboyant, older gay man.

“This is Esther. Sorry, this number is supposed to be my parent’s landline. Is this not the Voigt residence?” She checks her phone to make sure she dialed it correctly, but the number on her screen is the same one she memorized as a child.