Page 127 of What Goes Around

My father dragged a hand down his face. “Your sister has been in therapy for years,” he said heavily. “Anxiety. Nightmares. Medication. And now this happens.”

There it was.

The familiar shield. The excuse that had protected her for years.

My thoughts drifted to a memory I wished I could erase. A day burned into my mind, not only for what happened, but for what I learned years later.

I had been eight. Apple was seven. Marissa had taken us to Walmart to buy school clothes. It was supposed to be ordinary.

Marissa hovered over Apple, fussing, cooing, helping her choose outfit after outfit. I stayed close, quiet, holding the single dress I had been allowed to pick for myself.

Apple wanted a toy. A plush bear.

Marissa said no.

The tantrum that followed was spectacular. Loud. Dramatic. Designed to punish.

I stayed back, silent. I had learned early not to interrupt when Apple didn’t get her way. It was a rare moment when Marissa didn’t give in. For once, Apple didn’t win.

Apple, however, had never accepted no as an answer.

She slipped away when Marissa wasn’t looking, determined to take the bear herself.

Marissa didn’t notice right away. She was busy rifling through clothing racks, muttering about prices and discounts. I stayed where I was, obedient, fingers curled around the cart handle.

When Marissa finally looked up and realized Apple was gone, panic ensued.

It was the first time I ever saw her cry.

I remember standing there, forgotten, invisible, watching strangers gather, as Marissa screamed and paced. Police flooded the store. The parking lot filled with flashing lights.

An Amber Alert went out. Reporters appeared.

Apple was found twelve hours later with a middle-aged man who had bought her the toy.

Alive. Disheveled. Shaken.

The community rallied around Marissa. They called her brave. A devoted mother who had survived the unthinkable.

But Apple was never the same.

No one knew for sure what happened during those twelve hours. Apple refused to talk. The medical exam showed she had not been fully sexually assaulted.

The incident became the axis our family revolved around.

At first, the trauma was real. Understandable. But as the years passed, Apple learned how to wield it. How to use it. Sympathy became currency.

Marissa turned her guilt outward.

“Why didn’t you watch your sister?”

“You should have protected her.”

“You were older. You should have known better.”

I was eight. Apple was only eight months younger.

What exactly was I supposed to do?