I met her when I was six. I was playing with my Barbies inside my house when the doorbell rang. I opened the front door and looked up.

Despair. She smelled of despair, wild and cold like the rain that had until recently been pouring nonstop. Her face was pinched like someone had drowned her pet bunny right in front of her. She had brown hair, tangled into hopeless knots like the string on my yo yo. And her eyes were dark, like mine, but full of things I did not understand. She frightened me. I wished I had not opened the door for her.

“Susie, who is it? How many times do I have to tell you to look before you open the front door—” my mother appeared behind me and her eyes took in the woman before us. She sucked in her breath. She shivered. “Chloe?” she whispered.

“Stacy.” The woman said my mother’s name softly, her voice as delicate and hesitant as a fledgling sparrow on its first flight. She sounded so sad. I had never seen anyone so wet and cold and miserable before.

“Mommy, who’s that?” I asked, but my mother did not seem to notice me. She stared at the woman and the woman stared back.

“Maybe she could use some hot chocolate,” I observed, noting the way the woman was shivering and standing in a puddle of water dripping from her skirt. My mother would kill me for getting so wet.

My mother laughed gently and took my hand. “Susie, sweet, the rain has stopped. Look, it’s nice and lovely outside. Why don’t you go out and play?”

I pulled on my coat and rain boots, reluctantly. Curiosity about the woman was making me itch. Why was she so miserable? Why was she outside in the rain? Didn’t she have a coat, she was shivering so much!

The woman smiled down at me, but it was a strange smile. It looked almost painful. “My, what an obedient child,” she said, the softness of the sparrow gone from her voice. “Is this little Susana? What a sweet child.” She had a crow in her throat, her voice mocking and sour.

My mother put her hand on my head, as if to claim me. Or protect me. “Susie is six years old. It’s been three years since you saw her last. I don’t think she remembers you, Chloe.”

“Oh, but I’ve never forgotten her,” said Chloe.

“That’s enough,” my mother said, the smallest hint of sharpness in her voice. I looked at her curiously. She smiled for me and gently wrapped my Hello Kitty scarf around my neck. “Ask Davy if he can come out and play. Have fun.” She nudged me out the door. I dodged past the woman, hopped down the porch steps, and looked back.

But my mother had already invited the woman in and the door was shutting. The last thing I saw of them was Chloe, her arms pulling off a soggy sweater, and the expression on my mother’s face: helpless, tired, just as sad as Chloe’s.

In the way of children, I was able to forget about the strange woman for a while. I played basketball with my friend Davy. He was a competitive little brat, but I could be a meaner and more competitive brat. I emerged from the game triumphant, wet, gloriously number one. Davy scowled at me, angry. He couldn’t bear losing to a girl. I grinned and decided to be nice. “We can have a rematch tomorrow,” I suggested. He nodded, still angry, but accepting a chance to redeem himself.

Davy marched home, and I walked slowly back to my little house. The sidewalk was slick with water and the puddles were like big, smooth mirrors. I could see trees, clouds, and the whole vast blue sky captured in wet fragments on the ground. I wondered briefly, idly, if puddles were really a gateway into another world. Maybe, if you could fall into one in just the right way, you could go somewhere else. It would be like this world, but there would be different things, too, like dragons, fairies, and my father would not have gotten sick and died, my father would be alive to make my mother happy. My brother Samuel, who died when I was too little to remember, would be alive, also. Maybe they would be king and queen and prince and I could be a princess... maybe, maybe, if only I knew how to release the magic...

I walked absently to the front of my house and I stopped. My puddle-dreams slipped away from me and even the victory against Davy, so wonderful and soaring before, was spiraling away like smoke. I remembered my mother’s face when she had invited Chloe in: the dark, pained expression frightened me. It was how she had looked like when my father had died last year. When she first told me he had passed away, I didn’t understand. But I took one look into her face and I knew it was bad. I tried to figure out who had died now, but I couldn’t think of anyone.

The front door opened, making me jump. My mother looked my way and smiled her smile—the warm, gentle one that could stop my tears no matter what. Then she frowned.

“Susana Kerry Lee!” my mother said sternly. “You’re muddy all over!”

I looked at her, confused. When she spoke my full name, I was in trouble. But then, it was as if she were trying to act normal—there was nothing of the dark expression I saw earlier.

“Come here,” my mother demanded, still more sternly, and I walked up to the front porch.

We went through our usual routine: stomp on the door mat, don’t track mud all over the floor, take off your coat it’s dripping everywhere, do you want some hot cocoa? It was like any other day, but I couldn’t forget the strange visitor.

“Mommy, who was the lady that came earlier?” I finally asked, dried and cozy in the kitchen.

“Her name is Chloe,” said my mother. She handed me a mug of steaming hot chocolate.

“I’ve never seen her before,” I said, stirring my drink.

“Yes, you have. But you were very small,” said my mother. “Did you have fun today?”

Distracted, I went over the game with Davy, relishing again my victory. My mother smiled and told me good job. “Change your clothes for dinner,” she added at the end of her praise.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they’re dirty,” she replied. “And because Chloe is staying for dinner.”

“She’s still here?” I said in surprise. I thought she’d gone, and that was why my mother was happy again.

“She’s in the guest bedroom, sleeping for a bit,” said my mother. “She’s very tired, so you be quiet and change your clothes.”

Obediently, I tiptoed my way to my bedroom. I loved my bedroom: my mother had let me cover it with posters of dragons, elves, and fairies. They decorated my wall in a dizzying array of colors and shapes. I always fell asleep surrounded by magic, dreaming about fairies. Fairies were my favorite: they kept you safe and lucky. I had more fairy posters in my room than anything.

When I opened the door, I stopped in surprise. There was someone else in my room, her back turned to me, studying a crimson fire-fairy on my wall. What was she doing in my room?

She turned around and we stared at each other. Obviously, Chloe had cleaned up some since I first saw her. She smelled like my mother’s shampoo: sweet and floral, mixed with a spicy tang. On my mother, it smelled fresh and lovely. On Chloe, it smelled... ethereal. That was because underneath the grime she had on earlier, Chloe was truly beautiful. Her hair was drying in soft curls that dripped to her waist, her skin was pale like ivory. But it was her eyes that commanded attention: they were big and bright in her face, colored dark like coffee. They were also intense, full of things I couldn’t read. It was like staring into a magic rain puddle: beautiful, but you couldn’t get in no matter how hard you tried. She enchanted me... and she still scared me.

I belatedly realized, as we stared at each other, that there was a clotted, thick silence. Chloe had been humming something soft and lilting, but had stopped when she saw me. Now I cleared my throat awkwardly.

“Hi,” I piped, trying to chase away the stifling quiet. “Did you like the fairy?” I gestured towards the bright red fairy she had been looking at.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice quiet and melodic. “Fairies aren’t real, are they?”

“No...” I said reluctantly, surprised by her answer. Most people would have said yes, I love your fairy. “They could be real, though. In some other world. Or you can dream about them, in your sleep.”

She smiled, just a little smile that did not quite reach her brilliant, rain puddle eyes. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” she said in a mock-stern voice. “You’re supposed to say: yes, I do believe in fairies in this world. Otherwise, you won’t be able to save a fairy from death.”

My mouth fell open. “Fairies don’t die!”

“If you say you believe in fairies, then they will never die,” Chloe said calmly.

“Uh-uh,” I disagreed. “They can’t die, ever.”

“Your mother never read you Peter Pan?” Chloe asked.

“No,” I answered. I knew what she was talking about. I had read myself Peter Pan. I hadn’t liked it very much.

“Well, Peter Pan isn’t the best, anyway,” Chloe murmured thoughtfully. “A much better book for you is The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Or Harry Potter. I love Harry Potter. Or Lord of the Flies.”

“I’ve never heard of the last one,” I said. “Well, I’ve heard of The Lord of the Rings.”

“Mmm,” she said. There was real amusement in her voice now and her coffee eyes sparkled faintly. “Not quite the same thing.”

“My mother says I should change for dinner,” I said, remembering why I had come to my room.

Chloe nodded. “You have a very nice room,” she said, but her voice sounded mechanical.

“Thank you,” I replied politely. I waited, but she did not leave, so I grabbed a sweater from my closet and put that on.

“Are you a friend of my mother’s?” I asked curiously, turning around to look at her again. She was so beautiful, she could have easily been one of the fairies on my wall come to life.

She smiled, a little oddly. It somehow wasn’t a very nice smile; it looked like the first smile that she had given me, strange and pained. “I used to be your sister,” she said.

I stared at her. “I don’t have a sister. I used to have a brother, though. He died when I was little. And a Dad. He died, too.”

Chloe nodded, but she didn’t say “I’m sorry” as other people did when they heard about my family history. “Your sister-in-law,” she said. “I used to be your sister-in-law.”

I stared at her some more. “Really? Mommy never told me about any kind of sisters that I had.”

Chloe smiled very faintly, without any humor, and said, “Well, I wasn’t your sister for very long. Your brother Samuel died very shortly after I married him.”

“Oh... so you were married to Samuel?” I absorbed this piece of information with interest.

“Yes, I told you I was your sister-in-law. Are you—” We both could hear the word stupid hanging in the air, but she changed what she was saying—“well, that’s what it means, sister-in-law. I married your brother. You understand now?”

I nodded, but I was stung. The word stupid still pulsed in the air in front of me, unspoken but vibrantly bruising. Her tone of voice, too, I did not like.

She seemed to realize that she had offended me. “Look, Susie, I used to be your sister, so I was wondering just how you and your mother were doing. Let’s make this a nice visit, ok?”

She said this all in a cheery, fake voice. I didn’t believe her weak attempt at warmth for a second. But I was far, far too curious to foster hurt pride.

“So you were married to my brother?” I said. “What was he like? My mother never talks about him. It’s just always me and my mom in this family—we don’t even talk about Daddy. My mommy misses him a lot. She’s always sad. And lonely. I’m her only family.” I was telling Chloe something I had never, ever told anyone else. “I don’t even miss Daddy as much as she does, because I really don’t remember him. But Mommy gets really quiet sometimes and then I know she’s thinking about them. Daddy and Samuel. I think about them, too. But I really never know what they were like. Especially Samuel. What was he like? I’ve always wanted to meet him. But—”

I stopped and watched a strange, curious transformation take over Chloe’s lovely face. She paled and her eyes, her beautiful eyes, burned. They were mirror-like, but now they shattered. They glittered and shards of liquid glass fell out. She was crying. Her eyes were more luminous than ever. And I looked into a vast, vast space of coffee-colored grief and anger and—things I did not understand. Her eyes held so much right then that I was shocked.

“Chloe?” I said, stunned. “I’m—I’m sorry.” I was getting more and more alarmed. “Please don’t cry,” I begged. “Please, I’m really sorry...” I reached over to touch her arm, but she pushed me so hard I stumbled.

“Get away!” It was as if her voice had broken, too, because she sounded like a hoarse crow.

I regained my balance, more stunned than ever. I had never made anyone cry before. No one had ever shoved me away before like that. And I had never seen anyone so upset before—even my mother, my mother with her quiet, soft sadness tucked deep inside her—even Mommy did not have half of the terrible things behind Chloe’s eyes. I remembered to be frightened of her all over again.

“Chloe?” I said her name tentatively. When she turned her eyes on me again, it was as if she was cutting into me with her gaze. She had stopped crying, but her eyes were still full of shards and fire. “I don’t ever,” she said, “ever want you to talk about my Samuel.” Her voice scared me too: somehow soft and harsh both at once, sparrow and crow mingling into an awful sound.

I inhaled sharply. I nodded. I felt awful for making Chloe cry. I knew, from my own mother, that some people did not like talking about what made them sad. Chloe, without a doubt, counted as one of these people.

But Chloe was slowly returning to normal. She wiped at her eyes one last time and when she looked up again they were placid and com45 posed, like a cold cup of coffee.

“Are you dressed?” she said, as if she had not been upset at all. I nodded. She smiled her fake smile again—I wish she’d stop pretending to smile if she didn’t even mean it—and said, “Let’s go to dinner. Your mother must have it ready by now.”

My mother looked up when we came to the dining room. The table was already set with a steaming load of spaghetti. She smiled quickly and said, “Chloe, thank you for staying for dinner.”

“Oh, no, thank you for inviting me,” Chloe said politely, smiling as we sat down at the table. It was a small round table and I had an easy view of both Mommy and Chloe.

“I thought you were asleep and I was about to wake you up,” my mother said. “Did Susie wake you?”

“No, no, I couldn’t sleep much after all. Susie is a very charming child, Stacy. She tells the most amusing stories about fairies.”

“Susie loves anything fantasy,” my mother said. “But what about you, Chloe? How do you like freelance photography?”

“It’s very interesting. I’m lucky to turn my hobby into a job.” Chloe’s large eyes flickered my way. “Imagine, if Susie could turn her hobby into a job. She could be a fairy expert. It would be very enchanting.”

“Yes,” my mother said. She looked my way, too, and turned back to Chloe. “Where else have you traveled for your job? It must be fun.”

Chloe took a sip of water. “I’ve done two cross country trips before. It was very nice.” She paused. “But, Susie says fairies live in another world. Imagine how that would be, traveling to another world entirely. It would be so lovely.”

My mother stared at Chloe and I did too. I had never heard anyone sound so sarcastic and condescending before.

“Samuel had a creative imagination too,” Chloe said his name like she had eaten honey. “Samuel was so smart. And funny...” her voice faded quietly.

“But clearly,” Chloe continued suddenly, her voice getting harsh and soft at the same time, “Little Susie is living in her own deluded dream world, and you are doing her no favors by supporting that, Stacy.”

“Excuse me—” my mother said, but Chloe spoke over her.

“When Samuel died—” Chloe paused and closed her brilliant eyes. My mother winced.

“Chloe, let’s not talk about unpleasant things,” Mommy said. “It’s all in the past now and—”

“Don’t tell me you’re willing to be trapped in denial about everything, too, Stacy. You’re just as bad as Susie, living in your own reality.” Chloe opened her eyes and they were lit up like embers. “I want to talk about Samuel. I have to talk about Samuel,” she said, a plaintive tone in her voice.

“Alright,” said my mother softly. “Alright. After dinner. We can talk about Samuel later.”

“No, I want to talk about him now,” Chloe said. She looked at my mother fiercely.

But my mother looked at me, and my mother looked angry. I was astonished. What had I done? But she wasn’t angry at me. She was angry at Chloe.

“No,” she said firmly. “No, I will not allow you to talk about Samuel at this table.”

“But Susie wants to hear about Samuel, too. She asked me, earlier, to tell me all about him. And so I will. And a little bit about her father, too. She barely remembers him.”

“Chloe—”

“Samuel was my life,” said Chloe passionately. One statement, four words, and her voice held my mother and me spell bound. My mother’s protests died away, like Chloe’s voice had devoured them. She was so filled with pain and love that it was fascinating and frightening.

“I loved Samuel from the very moment we met. It was at a party. My car had a flat and he changed the tire for me. Not very romantic, but what I loved most about him was the way he laughed. He had a bright, wonderful laugh. He always made me laugh and smile.” Chloe’s melodic voice was low and sad. “I loved every little bits and pieces about him. He had lousy handwriting, but he always signed his name with a beautiful giant ‘s’. He would play the piano and sing for me, and then we’d talk for hours about music. He was so smart. So funny. He was the only person, ever, to love me the way he did.” Chloe took a deep breath and plunged on. “You know my parents never gave a damn for me when I was young? My older siblings ran away from home as soon as they could. I did, too. But I was so sad and lonely it nearly broke my heart. Samuel saved me. He was the best damn thing that ever happened to me.” Chloe glared at me and my mother.

“When he introduced me to his family, I honestly really did love all of you. His mother, father, and adorable little baby sister. I thought my happiness would last forever...” Chloe’s eyes fumed brighter than ever.

“It nearly killed me when he died.”

“I suppose you could say that it was an accident, like the official story. His father was a rookie cop. He was tired one day and irresponsibly left his gun lying around. The little baby daughter picked it up and shot a bullet through her brother’s brain. A tragic accident.”

I stopped breathing. What had she said? What had she said?

My mother stood up, abruptly like she had been jolted. “Chloe!” she screamed.

“What, Stacy? That’s the truth, isn’t it? That your little sweet Susie is a killer! She killed my Sam!”

“Chloe, get out of my house,” said my mother furiously, coldly.

Chloe turned to me, a blind, bizarre fury all over her lovely face. She was crying again, her magnificent eyes leaking rage. I could not see why I had ever thought her beautiful, because her face was screwed in such pain and madness. “I hate you,” she spat. “I hate you, and your father, and Stacy, and God! He was never kind to me, everything good I had He took away... Oh, Susie, why did you kill Samuel?”

Her eyes paralyzed me with so much accusation and contempt I couldn’t breathe. But it was her words that scorched my mind: the little baby daughter picked it up and shot a bullet through her brother’s brain... I looked at my mother, and I knew it was true. The knowledge hit me like someone had shot a bullet at through me. On my mother’s face, the calm mask she usually wore was completely pulverized by Chloe. She looked so pained and furious I almost didn’t recognize her.

“Chloe! You don’t tell that to little kids! She’s only six!” My mother was crying.

“I will tell the goddamn truth whenever I want!” Chloe shrieked back. “You don’t know, Stacy, you don’t know how much I have been suffering! I lost everything! It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair... I’m telling Susie this because I think she deserves it. She deserves to suffer, too.”

“Get out of my house!” screamed my mother again. “Or I will call the cops—or I’ll shoot you dead myself!”

I began crying, wildly. I was confused and the way my mother was screaming at Chloe was scaring me. And Chloe’s words... I cried harder.

Chloe threw me a dark, bitter look. Her eyes were triumphant and fiery and again I could see everything: she had a storm of pain inside her that was monstrous, ugly. But she left. She left and after my mother closed the door on her she leaned on it, sobbing.

I sat at the table, stunned. I couldn’t even see anything, my tears were blinding me. My mother came to me. “I’m sorry, Susie. I’m sorry.” She held me tightly.

I took a bath while my mother cleared up dinner. The water gushed out, hot and clean. Steaming. It was relaxing and I wanted to forget everything in the white steam. Forget everything, but I couldn’t. Then I prayed, I prayed hard for my soul. How could you wash away murder? I thought about Chloe, who was so desperate and mad, because I killed Samuel. My mother was sad, too, because her son was dead and it was my fault. My fault. Samuel, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, God. Everything was so horrible at the moment I cried again. There was nothing else to do anyway. I was in the bathtub, but it felt like I could never get clean again.

Anyway, what do you do when you are six and a grief-stricken woman tells you that you killed your own brother? That you were responsible for ruining the happiness of her life? That the reason your mother is sad is because of you? All I knew to do was cry.

That was many years ago. I’m older now—I’m almost thirteen. But I was so shaken up by the revelation—I think the only thing that kept me safe was my mother’s love. I even lost faith in my fairies, but my mother always told me she loved me no matter what. We still live in our small family, just us two. To be honest, sometimes I still feel like a monster—what Chloe intended, no doubt. I don’t know what became of her. But I think that she didn’t deserve to have that triumph in her eyes, that night she left us. She didn’t realize that my mother would always love me—that I could forgive myself, mostly, because of Mom. So when I’m feeling bad, I listen to her voice, telling me about her day, about grocery shopping, about traffic in downtown—just ordinary, mundane things—but her voice makes me feel better, always.