First Encounter

I glanced at my grandmother. She was smiling so hard her eyes were watering.

My attention returned to the red, wrinkly face, but even after a second evaluation, my opinion remained unchanged.

She was the ugliest thing I had ever seen.

I stared outside, counting the number of brown-gray utility poles that zipped by before I threw myself against the seat, anxious energy practically dripping from my pores. My clammy hands pawed at the seat belt before my fingers began poking at the edge of the window. The next instant, they were pulling on each other, but I eventually opted to wipe the moisture from my apprehension onto the seat of the car. My feet bouncing in the air so fast my chunky, white sneakers blurred until they looked like streaky clouds.

My grandmother, on the other hand, sat quietly, staring straight past the dashboard. She barely moved her head; even when a large truck passed by, casting a great shadow over the road before blocking my view of the large parking lot the driver intended to pull into, she seemed to not have noticed. My eyes eventually settled outside again. The ticking of the blinker was no match for my feet; urgency, dense, settled over my stomach, threatening to boil over as my eyes traveled up the sleek sides of the intimidatingly tall building that owned the parking lot. It loomed over the trees and the nearby building, and dwarfed the car I was peering out from. But as my grandmother finally said something to the driver about pulling close to the sidewalk, I reminded myself that this is just a building, just like my house. The important thing was that Dad was waiting, and I was going to see Mom.

They were expecting me. I shouldn’t be scared.

I was shuttled from my seat in the back, and my grandmother pulled me along with her hand clasping mine. I raised my other to grasp at her sleeve as we briskly made our way towards the slide doors, towards the building I had been staring down moments before. My grandmother ignored the people we passed by, and they ignored us, too. I looked up, craning my neck to look at the glass windows, and wondered which one of those rooms those people walked out from. Mom is in one of those, I thought. Maybe the highest one.

I stumbled on my feet. My grandmother slowed her pace as if she could feel the hesitation in my steps, the resistance in my will. But the slide doors opened with a hiss, and we entered anyway.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured as she approached the large desk at the front.

But her words were lost to me as I watched a figure approach. It was a woman old enough to be Mom’s friend, her hands clasped in front of her as she hugged her bag to her chest, her head hanging as if she was falling asleep. Behind her was someone who was young enough to be her daughter, calmly pushing the wheelchair towards me, but again, my grandmother did not seem to notice. A name tag dangled from the line around her neck.

We made eye contact. She smiled, as if she knew why I was here. But she said nothing as she continued to push the lady in the wheelchair past me, and towards the front entrance.

The lady looked tired.

My grandmother won my attention with a short tug on my hand and we walked past the desk and deeper into the hospital. The halls were bright, clean, and empty—so empty that my grandmother’s shoes clicked against the tile and the sound echoed in the space around me. The whiteness of the floor made it seem more blank than it actually was—surely there were more people in this place than just me and my grandmother.

“Are you scared?” my grandmother asked as she pressed the button to the elevator.

“No,” I replied honestly. But I was not sure what the pit in my stomach was indicative of.

“Don’t be,” my grandmother assured. “You’ve been here before, remember?”

I looked at her, and she cooed at me like she does when I am upset with her. I was here before when some kid rode his bike over my foot, and I remember I cried all day. My memory of this place was not a happy one—perhaps that was why my stomach was squeezing itself.

We waited in silence in front of the elevator, and I counted the quiet beeps that sounded as it slowly approached our floor. I counted seven, but I wasn’t sure since I was also wiping my hand against my shirt.

The door opened. A number of people filed out, all uninteresting, but my eyes focused on the last two to exit. One of them had a bunch of tissues to her face, but her eyes peeked out from the edges. They were red, and her irises were hidden by swollen lower eyelids—she had been crying all day. Next to her was someone who could be my grandma’s friend—she was hushing the girl in a low voice.

Her sniffles were silenced once the elevator doors closed, and we were on our way up. But I thought I could hear them still.

When the doors opened again, my grandmother had to pull twice before I surrendered.

“Come on,” she urged softly, “everyone is waiting.”

I saw Dad before I saw Mom; he was waiting outside the room, glancing around. He waved once he saw us turning the corner.

“Hi, baby,” he cooed, and he scooped me up the moment I got close enough. “How’ve you been? I missed you.”

I hugged him tight. But I could not help but try and peek past his neck and into room.

“You want to see Mom? She’s right in here.” Dad juggled me in his arms before he freed a hand to pull open the door. My grandmother wormed past us and slipped into the room, and we followed behind slowly. Dad closed the door behind him and pulled me close as we made our way towards the only bed in the room.

Mom was shaking her head as my grandmother placed herself on the seat closest to the bed. Her face was paler than I remembered it to be. When she finally saw me, she smiled broadly, the skin around her eyes wrinkling just slightly. But she did not open her arms like she usually did.

“June,” Mom called as she shrugged, bringing the white bundle in her arms closer to her face. “Do you want to see the baby?”

I nodded, and Dad let me onto the floor near the bed. From closer up, Mom looked less like the lady from downstairs. Mom peeled back the cloth, shifting so I could see my baby sister.

But within the white bundle was what looked more like a red, wrinkly turnip than a baby.

I took a step back and bumped into Dad. “Look, you’re a big sister now,” he said, and stepped forward, which only brought me closer. He reached out to trace a finger along the red, wrinkly skin near the baby’s eyes.

I looked to my grandmother, but she did not seem to notice that my baby sister looked nothing like a baby. Her eyes were buggy despite being shut, and she sported grandpa’s hairstyle: bald.

She looked nothing like my cousins.

“She’s so red,” was all I managed to say as I watched Mom reach into the cloth. Her movement were gentle and slow. When the baby started to frown, nostrils flaring, Mom spoke softly, and I watched the skin above the baby’s eyes flatten again.

“Your hands were this tiny once.” Mom chuckled as she pulled her hand back. There were miniature fingers wrapped around the tip of her single finger, and I gasped. “She’s like a doll, isn’t she?”

I found myself reaching out, my own index finger so large next to the ones Mom was holding. I tapped the little hand, and it squeezed Mom’s finger. I glanced at the baby, but the only response I got was quiet breathing.

Mom pressed her finger into my hand, and the baby’s fingers wrapped around my finger instead.

I ran my thumb over the tiny nails, and I had to disagree: the baby didn’t even come close to resembling the doll. Dolls were pretty: they had wide, open eyes and a head full of hair. And unlike a doll, the baby was warm.

My throat was dry, I noticed, but I wasn't thirsty. I ran my thumb over the nails again.

“Do you want to say anything?” Mom asked, looking at me expectantly. “She can hear you.”

I felt Dad pat my back. I nodded even though I didn’t prepare a speech.

I learned as close as I could without touching the blanket that swallowed the baby's body, and whispered. “Hi, Mari."

Mari turned her head, as if responding.

I think I smiled.

“I’m your big sister.”