Etched into slanted eyes.

Luce-Anne died on my birthday.



A small girl with a triangular face and eyes that barely existed. Her doll, I remember, the one with the electrocuted ginger hair and flexible body, her doll was with her when she died. Blue eyes, it had, and in its left cheek were two holes where Luce-Anne had pierced it with her hair grip. The doll was looking at Luce-Anne when she died, looking with wide eyes from her position in Luce-Anne’s arms. I couldn’t help thinking maybe she’s angry Luce-Anne is gone.



Luce-Anne was eight.



My mother: Luce-Anne can do mathematics, yes, she’s the best at mathematics in her class. My mother: Fast, she runs, so fast. Luce-Anne can run to the moon in a minute. My mother is not quite empty now Luce-Anne is gone, but she’s not pretty anymore, and she doesn’t fit inside her skin, and her hair doesn’t seem to like her, or I can’t think of another reason why it strays so far from her head.



Father Dean didn’t like her, no, I know he didn’t like her. Not my father, but he was a priest and grim was his expression daily, less so when he heard the news. ‘What bad news, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for your loss, what bad, bad news.’ But I don’t think his heart was sorry and I know that because his face is a traitor.



She did not have any friends. My mother: oh, but why, why, Luce-Anne is such a lovely girl, it’s a wonder, truly a wonder. I know that Luce-Anne pierced her doll’s cheek with a hair grip and I wonder what she did to her classmates. Or maybe her classmates did something to her?



Around the table we sat and it was my birthday. There were balloons tied to the chair I sat on and food on the table that the guests ate leisurely. Luce-Anne didn’t wish me a happy birthday, and maybe God was punishing her when he got the air to strangle her throat and got her chair to tip backwards? Down she went to the floor, and I couldn’t help thinking that she looked a bit like a zombie, with a stiff frame and unmoving eyes. My mother drew in a breath that she choked on, too, and dropped down to the floor to help Luce-Anne up. But her body was limp, like her doll’s. Luce-Anne’s eyes were wide open, and she was staring at the ceiling with her mouth turned down, and that’s the expression she died with.



My mother wept for me: oh, you poor boy, you poor, poor boy, I’m sorry, so, so sorry that your sister died on your birthday, I’m so sorry.



Luce-Anne’s doll remains in her room, and I go in there sometimes, look down at it on the pink-sheeted bed.



I am angry at my sister for dying on my birthday.