when i was eight years old, a car lost control and struck the front of our house. a freak accident. nothing to really write home about, other than the absurdity of it occurring on an otherwise normal afternoon. i hardly even blamed the guy whose brakes failed, rather, i came away from the traumatic event with a disdain for city planners and 55mph residential boulevards. 

my busy day of third grade was over, only one thing left for me to do. retrieve my little sister from the pre-k unit attached to our elementary schools larger k-8 building. it took me a while to get there, through throngs of kids streaming out onto the small playground; clusters of toddling bodies slowly filtering into pickup lines separated by grade.

i broke away from the column that had wrapped around the small playground, heading instead to where i knew my sister was waiting. she always stayed in her classroom, doodling, meandering, probably knowing that i would appear and show her the way home. we did it every day.

when i found her, we stood together in silence. no greeting, no words exchanged, sharing a look that meant we both understood it was time to go home. she hadn’t put away any of the crayons or sheets of perforated drawing paper, still intently focused on what might have been a self-portrait, or a portrait of mom. i helped her pack things up, making sure she placed all the dulled bits of multicolored wax back in their mangled cardboard home.

she looked up at me and smiled. it made the task seem a little less grueling, put the musty smell of an old classroom a little farther away. i didn’t love taking her to and from school, but i did love her, and i worried about her even if it wasn’t something i recognized as worry right then. i picked up her schoolbag, a beat-up tote with some of the lettering already faded, double checking she hadn’t left anything behind. 

lacey was forgetful, a little daydreamy, and even though she knew it was time to go, something had stolen her attention away at the other end of the room. i gave her shoulder a tug and offered my palm. we moved for the door together, her small hand clasped in mine, when the classroom phone rang. 

“afternoon? yes? oh, hello Mr. Hawthorne. oh, lord. bless her, bless her.” our portly after school instructor gasped. “goodness. gracious, oh-” she tittered.

Mrs. Martin was the type of woman to come to school an hour before other teachers, hair still locked in plastic curlers, to set lesson plans for the day and make sure her classroom was immaculate. the A type of overachiever who felt it was her duty to transfer that mindset to her impressionable students. in other words, she was a hardass. 

i turned to go, tugging my sister’s threadbare sleeve, instructing her to say goodbye to her friends and teacher. she only nodded sheepishly; one hand raised in a glum wave, her fingers drooping at the top of it like even the acknowledgment of her departure was a faux pas. maybe, somehow, she knew that today would be the worst day of our lives. 

“cain!” Mrs. Martin called out. the name was like an activation phrase when it leapt from the mouth of a commanding older woman. i froze on the spot. my sister stopped just short of bumping into me, turning her head towards Mrs. Martin a bit befuddled. “your father called. you and lacey are going to stay after school today, dear.” 

that irritated me. mom was going to make chocolate chip cookies today. dad was at work, like always, why did he care? i gave her a look like she would have to pry my sister’s hand from my dead body. Mrs. Martin racked the phone back onto the receiver and closed the gap between lacey and i with a few smooth strides. she held my shoulder with a surprising firmness for somebody with so much silver hair. 

“cain, there was an accident.” she murmured gently. i didn’t really understand, especially because if something was wrong, i needed to be there. “your mother got hurt and your father needs to take care of her, okay? i need you to stay here and look after your sister.” she cooed. lacey’s befuddlement had switched to a nervous unease, her hand wiggling in my grip. i gave it a reassuring squeeze and tugged her just a little closer. 

the expression that Mrs. Martin wore was kind, authoritative, but she failed to hide all of her concern for us. it sat somewhere behind her eyes, peeked out in a subtle frown, and terminated in the forceful grip that still hadn’t released me. “can you take care of lacey while the grown-ups take care of your mom?” 

that changed everything. i had a mission, a purpose. one that would solidify into a promise when i squeezed her hand again at our mother’s funeral, tears streaming down my face.