The Saintly Sister

The notification bubble burned behind Elena’s eyelids every time she blinked. *The package is secure.*

She stood at the kitchen island, gripping her ceramic mug until her knuckles turned the color of old bone. The house was awake now, humming with the forced cheer of a snow day. Outside, the world had been erased by a wall of white, trapping them in a snow globe that Marcus had likely paid for.

The back door opened with a gust of wind that cut through the kitchen’s warmth. Diana stomped in, shaking snow from her oversized wool coat like a golden retriever returning from a romp. Her cheeks were flushed a healthy pink, a stark contrast to Elena’s gray exhaustion.

"Fresh from the oven!" Diana announced, holding up a bakery box tied with twine. "Well, fresh from the guest house oven. I reheated them. God, it’s beautiful out there, El. You should really step outside. Just for a minute."

Diana moved with a fluid, bohemian grace that Elena had always envied. She unwound her scarf, revealing the messy-chic bun that took forty minutes to perfect, and set the box on the counter. The smell of yeast and expensive butter filled the sterile kitchen, masking the scent of sanitizer that clung to Elena’s skin.

"I can't," Elena said, her voice tight. "Leo’s secretions are thick today. I need to be close to the suction machine."

Marcus walked in, hair wet from a shower, looking refreshed. He hadn't mentioned the phone. He hadn't mentioned the text. He went straight to the box of pastries, bypassing Elena entirely.

"Almond?" he asked Diana, his eyes lighting up.

"Obviously," Diana smiled, bumping her hip against the counter. "I know my brother-in-law's weaknesses."

They stood there, tearing into the flaky crusts, laughing about the snow depth. They looked like a magazine ad for a happy family. Elena stood on the other side of the island, separated by four feet of granite and a universe of secrets.

"We need to talk about the insurance," Elena said, dropping the words like stones into their laughter.

Marcus paused mid-chew. The light in his eyes died instantly. "Elena. Not before coffee."

"The denial letter came yesterday," she lied. She hadn't seen the letter yet, but she knew the coverage limits. "They aren't covering the new ventilator circuit. That's twelve thousand dollars, Marcus."

"We'll appeal," Marcus said, dusting crumbs from his lips. "We always appeal."

"You're too tense, El," Diana chimed in, her voice dripping with that cloying, weaponized pity. She reached across the island and patted Elena’s hand. Her skin was hot, feverish. "Marcus handles the money. You handle the miracle keeping that boy alive. Stay in your lane, honey. For your own sanity."

*Stay in your lane.* It was said with a smile, but it felt like a door slamming shut.

"I'm just saying," Elena pressed, pulling her hand away. "If the cash flow is tight—"

"The cash flow is fine," Marcus snapped. The mask slipped for a microsecond, revealing teeth. Then he sighed, the patient husband once more. "Look, you're exhausted. You were up at two doing calibrations. I heard you."

He didn't mention he was up too. He didn't mention the phone.

"Let me take tonight," Diana offered. She moved around the island, picking up the coffee pot. "I'll sit with Leo. I'll do the suction, the turning, everything. You sleep for eight solid hours. Marcus can lock the door so you don't wander."

"I don't wander," Elena said defensively.

"You hover," Diana corrected gently. "Let me help. That's why I gave up the gallery, isn't it? To be here."

She lifted the heavy carafe to pour Marcus a refill. Elena watched her arm. The movement wasn't smooth. Diana’s forearm was vibrating. It was a subtle, high-frequency tremor that rattled the spout against the rim of Marcus's mug.

*Clink-clink-clink.*

It wasn't fatigue. Elena knew fatigue; fatigue was heavy, slow. This was chemical. It was the jittery energy of a withdrawal, or a stimulant.

"Oops," Diana laughed, steadying the pot with her other hand. "Too much caffeine already, I guess."

She tilted the pot again. As her arm extended, the wide sleeve of her chunky knit sweater slid back.

Something silver and heavy slipped from the cuff.

It hit the granite countertop with a sharp, metallic ring that silenced the room. It wasn't jewelry. It spun on the stone surface before settling near the sugar bowl.

A Zippo lighter. Brushed chrome. Well-used.

Elena stared at it. The air in the kitchen seemed to vanish.

"I didn't know you started again," Marcus said, his voice too casual, too quick.

Diana snatched the lighter up, shoving it into her jeans pocket. "Oh, just for candles. You know how I love my atmosphere."

But Elena wasn't listening to the excuse. She was looking at the woman who wore her sister’s face.

Diana had asthma. Severe, hospitalization-level asthma. She had never smoked a cigarette in her life. She wouldn't even allow candles in her apartment because the smoke triggered her wheezing.

Elena looked up, meeting Diana’s eyes. For the first time, she didn't see warmth. She saw a flat, calculated assessment.

"Candles," Elena repeated.

"Lavender and sage," Diana said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "To clear the bad energy."