What Remains of Me by Alison Gaylin Page A

never came. Catherine was shedding Kelly, the same way you’d shed any bad habit, bit by bit by bit.
    By the last few months of her life, Catherine had become a stranger. She’d grown lean and leggy and hard-eyed, while Kelly stayed a chubby kid. She started wearing lipstick you could only get in Europe that came in an elegant silver tube and was called Rouge de la Bohème . She took it with her everywhere, made a big show of applying it.
    Mom didn’t know what to make of her. “ Who are you, anyway? ” She said that to Catherine more and more.
    Catherine hardly ever said a word to Kelly, sneaking in late without waking her, ditching her at the school bus with a quick wave good-bye. She would disappear for days at a time and return wearing brand-new clothes and once, a new necklace with a delicate, shimmering chain and gold, heart-shaped pendant that had two small diamonds at the bottom. “ Where did you get that? ” Mom had asked, between her teeth, eyes narrowing as Catherine just stood there, smirking at her. “ Answer me. Who gave that to you? ”
    â€œ I think it’s pretty, ” Kelly had tried. Neither one of them had paid any attention.
    Kelly pined for Catherine. She started spying on her, following her down the street at a safe distance as she walked with her beautiful friends, strawberry blond hair swinging and gleaming. She strained to overhear Catherine’s phone conversations, marveling at her coy laugh, her cagy, clever way with words.
    She stayed up late, listening for Catherine’s rides to drop her off outside their apartment. Sometimes it would be groups of girls, theirlaughter floating in the night air. Other times, Kelly would hear rustling and heavy breathing outside their front door and she’d know it was a boy.
    Once, when Kelly was home from school sick and Mom was at work, she’d heard tires screech outside their window. Kelly had peeked around the curtains to see her sister hurrying away from the most beautiful car she’d ever seen—a shiny black Porsche, with tinted windows and mirrored hubcaps. Kelly had been so enthralled with the car that she hadn’t even bothered to think about who Catherine had been storming away from until he got out of the driver’s-side door and followed her a few steps. As Kelly watched, the Porsche’s driver grabbed her sister’s swinging arm, then spun her around, pushed her up against one of the palms that lined their street, and kissed her, hard. It looked strange and mean, as she’d never imagined a kiss could be.
    As he headed back to his car, Kelly had been able to take a good, long look at him—mirrored aviator glasses to match the hubcaps, black T-shirt and sports jacket and slacks, not jeans. Very short hair, receding hairline. He wasn’t a boy. He was a grown man, much older than Len. He was probably older than their father.
    Kelly had hurried back into her bedroom and gotten into bed, closing her eyes and seeing it all again behind her lids—the beautiful car, the man with the aviator glasses. The way he’d grabbed at her sister.
    â€œ You’re here ,” Catherine had said. “ What are you doing here? ”
    â€œ I’m sick .”
    â€œ Okay. Um . . . Hope you feel better .”
    It had made Kelly open her eyes—the crack in Catherine’s voice. And then she’d looked at her face, the streaks of mascara down her cheeks. You’re crying , she had wanted to say. You never cry.
    â€œKelly?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œDo you remember Thumbelina?”
    Kelly had nodded, remembering the doll they’d both begged for when they were little—tiny Thumbelina who could crawl and turn over and looked so real and cute on the TV ads. They’d pleaded with their parents for months— Just one Thumbelina doll! We can share it! —and finally their dad had relented. They’d torn open the box, only to find a cheap