𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐧 [s. harrington]

THE TALE OF TWO SISTERS

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(the flea and the acrobat)

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The morning of Sara Hopper's funeral was the warmest that the suburbs just outside New York city had experienced that April. It was the type of morning that the little girl loved: a cool breeze cutting through the heat of the day, the birds chirping melodically in the trees, flowers blooming in the bright green grass, and a cloudless blue sky that stretched as far as the eye could see. On any other morning like that, Sara would've been up bright and early, jumping and bouncing on Beth's bed until the older girl woke up, insisting feverishly that they spend the day at the park playing on the swings. Beth would've taken a second to wake, and another agitatedly telling her sister to get off her bed, before giving into the girls demand, getting dressed for a day spent running around the grass and digging in the sandbox. They would have passed their mother, who sat in the living room reading a magazine and sipping a mug of hot tea. Maybe they would've even passed their father, who would be polishing off a mug of coffee and whatever he had scrapped together for breakfast, his police uniform half undone and his hair sticking up all over the place. That sight would make the two girls giggle uncontrollably as they rushed out the door, holding hands as they ran to the park just a few blocks down the street. Typically on days like these, Mrs. O'Malley would be walking her dog, Murphy, and the girls would pause their journey to stop and pet the little shih tzu, grinning with amusement as he rolled on his back and let his tongue hang loosely out of his mouth. Eventually they would reach the park. They always made it to the park. And there they would spent their beautiful morning. Maybe their friends would be there already, and Beth and Sara would go join in on whatever they were playing. Maybe their friends would arrive later, wasting the early hours of morning (which were always Sara's favorite) sleeping in or watching cartoons. Maybe their friends wouldn't come at all. The two girls didn't really care. After all, they had each other. That was enough for them.

But that day, Beth was not awoken by her little sister jumping excitedly on her bed. She hadn't been awaken like that for quite some time, not since Sara had gotten sick. Instead, Beth woke to the muffled sounds of her mother sobbing uncontrollably down the hall. Bleary eyes blinked a few times before Beth could see her mother standing in a black dress, pearls draped across her collarbone, looking at her reflection in the mirror. The next hour or so was a blur. At some point, her mother composed herself to help Beth get ready-and by help, she meant practically throwing a black dress at Beth and weakly telling her to put it on. She remembered the car ride to the chapel, where Sara's funeral service was held. It was the worst car ride of Beth's life.

Her father was silent for the entirety of the drive, holding the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Her mother's body shook in the passenger's seat as she tried to cry as quietly as possible. Beth stared at the teddy bear in her lap. It had been Sara's favorite stuffed animal over the past few months. She had slept with it every day in the hospital ever since Beth and her father had picked it out at the hospital gift shop.