The Glass Doll They Left Behind

My diagnosis turned me into the family’s greatest burden after I had poor coagulation, their Glass Doll. The doctor had given me five years. Because of that sentence, my parents’ entire world revolved around me. They poured every cent, every moment of their lives, into keeping me alive. The one day we had a faint sound of laughter was my fifth birthday. Only my little sister, Willow, was too young to understand the relief. “Aubrey,” she asked, her voice small and bewildered, “is this the last birthday we’ll ever have with you?” That was the first time Dad ever hit her. Mom collapsed onto the floor, weeping and praying for some impossible extension of my time. But on the morning Willow was supposed to start kindergarten, I whispered that my chest hurt a little. Mom’s face shattered. She struck me, the sharp slap echoing in the silence. “Why are you so awful?” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Do you have to make your sister miserable just to prove a point? Can’t we have five minutes that aren’t about you?” “Go on! Go die, Aubrey! Just stop torturing us already!” She grabbed the medicine bottles from the counter, sending them crashing onto the tiled floor, then hauled Willow away and slammed the door behind them. I didn’t say a word. I just stared at the small cut on my forearm, watching the blood well up, feeling the cold seep into my body.

1 I’d instinctively raised my arm when the prescription bottles smashed, and a shard of glass had found me. I watched the slow, thick welling of red for a full two seconds before the doctor’s long-ago warning finally surfaced: “Honey, you cannot have any cuts. Even a scratch might not stop bleeding.” In a rush of panic, I fumbled for the first-aid kit. I slapped on a Band-Aid, but half a minute later, the white cotton was saturated. I turned to grab a gauze roll, but the blood was already dripping onto the clean hardwood floor. Mom always kept the house immaculate. I couldn’t stand to give her one more thing to be angry about. Frantically, I ripped at the sleeve of my pajama top, trying to wipe the floor clean. But the blood seemed to be actively spreading, painting a wider, messier smear with every swipe. Finally, I just grabbed a hand towel, wadding it around the wound. A chill began to set in, starting at my fingertips and burrowing deep into my bones. I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the tub, letting the water get almost scalding hot. Only when I slid into the steaming bath did I feel a fraction of relief. The blood was still flowing, instantly clouding the water and staining it a deep, alarming rose. Suddenly, I desperately needed them. I fumbled with my watch and dialed Dad’s number. It rang and rang. No answer. Then, Mom’s. The background noise was deafening—music, kids laughing, a kind of manic energy that felt miles away from my quiet bathroom. “What is it, Aubrey? Make it fast. Willow’s about to go on.” “Mom, I don’t feel well. I’m bleeding a lot…” Her impatience sliced through the line. “Not well again? Seriously?” “Is it physically impossible for you to be okay for twenty minutes when we’re not right there? Aubrey, you’re eight years old. You’re a big girl. Can you please just act like one?” The sharp click of the dial tone was deafening in the empty bathroom. I looked at the water, which was slowly, inevitably turning crimson, and wanted to cry so badly it hurt. Mom was right. I was always a problem. My illness was a problem. My sadness was a problem. Now, my very blood was a problem. Her favorite cashmere-blend sweater, left draped over the side of the tub, still smelled faintly of lavender. I pulled it over my face. For a moment, it was like being little again, back when I had a high fever and she’d stay up all night, her face close to mine. The water cooled. The bleeding seemed to have slowed a bit. Maybe it was almost done. As my head started to feel fuzzy, a thought settled: Maybe if the blood stops, the trouble stops too. Maybe then, I’ll finally be fixed. My parents wouldn’t have to spend every second worrying about their sickly daughter. My sister wouldn’t have to always concede to her fragile older sibling. I wouldn’t have to always be careful, always pretending to be the grown-up girl, biting my tongue to stifle a gasp of pain in the middle of the night. Curled up in the tub, I felt safe—the way I imagined a baby must feel before it’s born. 2 When I opened my eyes again, all I saw was a very pale, very small girl floating in a tub of dark water. Was this it? Was I already gone? The front door opened. Willow’s high, excited laugh rang out. “Aubrey! I’m home!” I rushed out. Mom and Dad walked in, holding Willow’s hands, Dad carrying a box for a strawberry birthday cake. He paused, looking at the mess of the shattered pill bottles on the kitchen floor. “What is this?” Mom’s brow furrowed in exhaustion. “She threw a tantrum at lunchtime.” “She lied about being sick because I had to take Willow to her first day of school.” Dad’s face hardened. “She’s getting completely out of hand.” I tried to explain, waving my hands frantically in front of their faces. “No! It wasn’t on purpose! I wasn’t lying!” My hand passed right through Dad’s shoulder. They didn’t feel a thing. Willow ran to my bedroom door. She knocked gently. “Aubrey, come on out! It’s cake time!” Silence. Utter, complete silence from inside. Willow looked up at Mom. “Is she sleeping?” I floated close to my sister. “Thank you, Willow.” Mom’s voice was cold. “Sleeping? She’s just trying to ignore us. Leave her. We’ll eat first.” Dad set the cake on the kitchen island. Willow peered at it, her small voice soft. “But I want to wait for Aubrey.” Dad ripped open the box and exchanged a look with Mom. “If Aubrey were half as reasonable as you are, we’d both sleep a lot better.” The five candles were pushed into the soft frosting and lit. Mom hoisted Willow onto a stool, and under the spotlight of their gaze, she blew out the flickering flames. It was Willow’s fifth birthday. Mom smiled warmly. “Did you make a wish, sweetie?” Willow’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! I wished that Aubrey—” Dad quickly ruffled her hair. “Shh. Wishes don’t come true if you tell them, kiddo.” I watched them from the edge of the counter. In previous years, my birthdays had always been heavy with the smell of hospital sanitizer and guilt. The candles on my cake were always a countdown. But Willow’s birthday finally looked like a Normal Birthday. When it came time to cut the cake, Willow insisted on the biggest slice. “This is for Aubrey!” She carried the plate to my closed bedroom door and knocked again. “Aubrey, come share the strawberry cake with me!” Still nothing. The tiny smile on Willow’s face faded. She returned to the island and whispered, “Aubrey won’t talk to me.” Dad suddenly reached out, snatching the plate from Willow’s hand. He didn’t just move it; he slammed the perfect slice of strawberry cake and the plate into the garbage can. “Fine,” he growled, hitting the table with his open palm. “Then no one eats it! No one calls her again. If she wants to act like this, she can starve until she decides to be a decent kid.” Willow was terrified, her eyes instantly filling with tears. Mom pulled her close, glaring at Dad. “Don’t yell at her!” Then, she softened for Willow. “It’s okay, sweet girl. We’ll eat ours. When Aubrey figures out she’s being ridiculous, she’ll come out.” I knelt by the trash can, staring at the discarded slice. The strawberry on top was still glistening, but now it was mixed with damp paper towels. What a waste. It was my favorite. Willow ate her small slice in quiet bites, constantly glancing at the closed bedroom door. Mom and Dad ate in silence. The dining table was meant for four, but one seat was empty. I sat in that empty space and quietly wished Willow a happy birthday. 3 That night, Mom was bathing Willow. I hovered in front of the shower curtain, my ghost-heart clenching, terrified that she would pull it back and see the horror of the tub. Steam filled the room. Mom was making soap bubbles for Willow. Willow looked up, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. “Mommy, why hasn’t Aubrey come out yet?” Mom’s hand stilled on the back of Willow’s head. “She’s probably sleeping, honey.” Willow’s voice was small. “But I miss her. I haven’t seen her all day.” Mom turned off the water and wrapped Willow entirely in a massive bath towel, pulling her into a hug. “Willow, do you ever get mad at Daddy and me?” “Mad about what?” Mom squeezed her tighter. “Mad that we always focus on Aubrey, that we give her all the best things, that sometimes we forget to give you enough time.” Willow reached her wet little arms around Mom’s neck. “No. Because Aubrey is sick.” “My teacher said that sick people need the most looking after. Daddy, Mommy, and I have to take care of her.” Mom’s shoulders gave a small, almost imperceptible shake. She buried her face in Willow’s hair, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak. “You are so grown up, sweet girl.” “Aubrey is very fragile.” I stood pressed against the cold tiles, listening as Mom continued. “She was born with a weak heart. The doctors told us she might never grow up.” Mom inhaled sharply, wiping her nose on the towel. “We’ve been so terrified of her hurting, of her being in pain, that we’ve almost smothered her with everything we have.” Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. “But sometimes I get so tired, Willow.” “Sometimes, I just… I wish I could be a normal mother. A mom who didn’t have to be so scared. I wish I didn’t have to be so tired, sweetheart.” Willow, only half-understanding, patted Mom’s back with a small hand. I crouched in the corner, silent, clear tears of the dead falling onto the tiles. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was the one who was selfish…” “If I had never existed, if you only had Willow, how much easier would it all have been?” But they couldn’t hear me. After tucking Willow into bed, Mom walked to the door of my room and stood there for a long time. Finally, she raised a hand and knocked softly. “Aubrey? Are you asleep?” I drifted toward her, trying to reach out, but my ghostly fingers passed through empty air. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you today. That was my mistake.” “It was Willow’s first day of school, and I was so stressed. I didn’t mean to be cruel.” She paused, waiting for a reply that would never come. Mom sighed, defeated. “I left a slice of cake on the counter. It’s strawberry. The one you like. Please eat it.” She stood there for another few seconds before walking back to the master bedroom. The door closed. I went to the kitchen and saw the small slice of cake on a plate. It was just a tiny piece, and the strawberry on top was slightly tilted. I looked back at the small girl submerged in the tub. The water was now freezing cold. My face was white as paper. Mom never pulled back the curtain. She didn’t know the cake was already too late. She didn’t know that I could no longer hear her apology. 4 I followed Mom into the master bedroom. Dad looked up from his book. “Did Aubrey come out?” Mom sat on the bed, folding laundry. She shook her head. “No movement. She’s being stubborn. She’s a big girl now, she has pride.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She’s hurting, too. She’s never been to a real school, never made real friends. Seeing Willow go off must be hard.” “Maybe we could hire a tutor? Get her some lessons at home?” Mom froze, her hands stilling over a shirt. “A tutor? Where will we get the money? We’re already behind on her medication bill from last month.” Dad sighed, turning onto his side. “I’ll start driving for Uber. I can do a few hours every night after the office. We can pull it together.” Mom turned to look at him. The bedside lamp highlighted the deep, dark circles under his eyes. “You’re exhausted enough from your day job. That’s dangerous.” He waved it off. “I’ll be fine. I’m strong.” “But my shoulder is a little tight lately. Could you put a patch on it for me?” Dad turned over. Mom lifted his pajama collar. The skin on his shoulder was angry, red, and swollen. I stood by the bed, staring at the raw irritation on his skin. Ghost-tears fell onto the duvet. I always complained about him coming home late, about him not having time to play with me. I never stopped to think about what he was doing for those missing hours. I threw myself into his empty embrace. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Please forgive my selfishness.” Mom applied the heating patch, and they lay down, turning off the light. I slipped in between them, just as I used to do when I was little. On my left, Mom’s warm, even breath. On my right, Dad’s slow, steady heartbeat. I reached out, my incorporeal arms loosely circling them both. In that quiet moment, I felt an impossible peace. The next morning, Mom called out for breakfast. Passing the island, she saw the strawberry cake—still sitting on the plate, completely untouched. The whipped cream had started to sag, the strawberry shriveled. The faint tenderness on Mom’s face vanished, replaced by a cold fury. She put the plate down and stormed toward my room. She banged twice on the door. “Aubrey, come out now.” No response. Her eyes began to well up. “I apologized yesterday! What do you want from me now?” “You won’t eat the cake? Are you going on a hunger strike to spite us? Who are you trying to punish? Do you want to kill me with stress?” Still no sound. Mom gripped the doorknob and threw the door open. The room was empty. Her face went bone-white. She spun around, terror seizing her. “Jack! She’s gone!” Dad scrambled out of bed. “What? No, Laura, don’t panic. She must be somewhere in the house.” That’s when Willow’s voice came from down the hall. “Mommy, Aubrey’s in the bathroom playing in the water!” I panicked. I screamed at Willow. “Willow! Go! Don’t let them see me!” But Willow couldn’t hear. She marched into the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain all the way back. Mom sighed, relieved, then the air completely emptied from her lungs. “Aubrey! You have crossed the line! I am truly angry now—” The next second, she saw me, submerged in the bloody water.