Within Arm's Reach by Ann Napolitano Page B

back, arms crossed over our chests, our hair whipping past each other’s faces. We were clearly under orders to smile, and had ended up with awkward half-mouthed grimaces. If you looked closely, past the puffiness of our parkas, you could see our elbows digging into each other’s sides. We were each trying to bring the other down either by calling uncle first, or by getting yelled at by Mom for ruining the picture.
    The other two photos show us playing. I was running, fists and body clenched, uphill, while Lila ran past me downhill, her arms stretched out like airplane wings, her mouth a wide O. In the third photo we played dead. We lay on our backs, arms and legs splayed, eyes squeezed shut.
    “I can’t remember that day,” Lila says. “Do you?”
    “No.”
    Lila is still bent over at the waist, studying the photographs as if looking for hidden clues. “I can’t stand it when I can’t remember something. What good is a photographic memory if I can’t remember days from my own life?”
    Our parents had submitted us to a battery of psychological tests when we were in grade school: IQ, personality tests, aptitude exams, etc. They had never told us the results of the tests, which was good, because Lila and I were fiercely competitive and cruel to each other up until I left for college. We might not have survived the knowledge of who had a greater IQ. The only thing our parents did tell us after the testing had concluded was that I had an aptitude for reading and writing, and that Lila had a photographic memory. Lila and I have both been struggling under the weight of these ordinary gifts ever since. I think we both wondered if they were true, or whether we had forced them to be true simply because of how we labeled ink blots and matched vocabulary words in some mustached psychologist’s rec room when we were nine and eleven years old.
    Lila picks up the photographs and puts them back in the envelope. “Did Mom call here last night?”
    “No. Why would she?”
    “Gram was in a car accident yesterday afternoon.”
    I hear her, but the words don’t make sense, so I push them away with questions. “What do you mean? Is she okay? She’s fine, right?”
    “I don’t actually know the details. She got into a fender bender in front of the Municipal Building and Dad brought her in. She needed a few stitches, and the doctor thought she might have had a tiny stroke while driving, which would have caused the accident. But there’s no way to prove that, and she was perfectly clear-headed with me. She’s fine.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “I saw her.”
    “Thank God.”
    I picture Gram behind the wheel of a car careening out of control. I see her eyes widen with fear, and my own fill with tears. I don’t want to cry. My sister is not someone you want to cry in front of. I’m not sure she has ever cried, herself. She must have when we were little, but not that I can remember. I pull at the belt on my bathrobe. If I keep talking maybe I will be able to get rid of this picture of Gram hurt. I say, “Are you going to get mad at me if I tell you something?”
    “What kind of something.”
    “I want to tell you this one thing.”
    “I won’t listen to your boy problems.”
    “I’m pregnant. I told Joel last night.”
    Lila turns her head and looks back at me, still with her searching squint. “You’re pregnant again ?”
    I try not to sound defensive. The tears are sitting behind my eyes, waiting for any opportunity to pour out. “Yes. I’m keeping the baby this time.”
    “I should have told them to tie your tubes when I took you to that clinic. Why are you telling me this? You know I don’t want to hear things like this!”
    I breathe slowly, in order to calm us both down. I don’t have the energy to deal with her anger. Lila has inherited a tsunami-like rage from our mother, who inherited it from her father. Lila is aware of the trait, and its path down our family tree, and it infuriates her. She concentrates