holly quintanilla : d3 : fin

Today, I am meeting my sister’s mother. I did not know my sister before she died. I didn't even know I had a sister. My own mother waits outside the apartment complex. This is not her meeting to witness. Odile’s mother opens the door, and she looks exhausted, carrying heavy purple bags under her eyes. She has probably been exhausted for the last four years. She waves me inside and leads me through an apartment that hasn't been cleaned in ages. While she makes tea, I pick at the skin around my fingernails.

I saw Odile in person once. We did not look anything alike. My skin is pale pink, and gets very red in areas like my nose, shoulders, and elbows. My blue eyes are framed by long, thick eyebrows. My nose tilts up at the end like a pig’s, and my lips seem to be perpetually chapped. I enjoy touching up my features with simple makeup. Bronze eyeshadow and clear lip gloss are my items of choice. When I’m not wearing mascara, it looks like I don’t have any eyelashes at all.

I’m of average height and less-than-average weight. People can wrap their whole hand around my wrist. My hair, dark brown and wavy, stops right above my chest. I like to tie it up more often than not. Today, I have it in a loose braid. I try to cover my thin frame with large items of clothing, like smock dresses and oversized jackets.

Odile’s mother hands me a mug of unidentifiable tea. I thank her. I can’t not be polite to people. I don't see any reason to be rude to somebody who hasn't been rude to me. It’s the golden rule, after all. Treat others the way you want to be treated. When I’m mean, even on accident, I find myself feeling guilty for it.

I wasn't raised with much, so I learned to be thankful for what I have. Tomorrow is never guaranteed. I know that far too well, in relation to certain family members. I never take anything for granted, not even the worn-out shoes on my feet. I know children in 12 would die to have my shoes, despite the holes forming in the fabric and the dirt caked in the soles. I’m lucky to have my possessions.

Despite my generally positive exterior, there is a quiet anger within me. I hate that people keep secrets from me. I hate that an entire human was kept from me, a half-sister I could have had a relationship with. I hate how, despite how kind I try to be, the world thinks I do not deserve kindness back. I hate the situation my mother got into that brought me into this world. I do not resent my existence, but I resent how it was created.

It’s funny, the things you find out as you grow older. Did you know I was the product of an affair? My father, tired of his needy daughter and perpetually stressed wife, sought out the nearest twenty year old and had sex with her. A child wasn't supposed to arise from their arrangement, yet I arrived on a warm July evening. I’m surprised he stuck around after I was born. I can’t say I had a real relationship with him, though, as he died when I was two. Any times we may have shared were lost to my feeble infant mind.

My mother was young and clueless. She cared for me as best as she could, but balancing a job and a child alone is not easy. I often went without food or supervision. Things became easier when I began attending school. My mother could get jobs that required longer hours, but paid more, and she wouldn't have to worry about leaving me alone. I can remember being a very anxious child, since nothing ever felt certain to me. I didn't know where my next meal would come from. I didn't know when my mother would return from her various jobs. My life felt like a perpetual earthquake.

As I grew older, things became more stable. Then, of course, there was the Odile revelation. I woke up on the morning of the 71st reaping without a care in the world. I was eleven, still a year away from having to worry about the Games, yet still obligated to stand in the District Square for the Reaping. The girls went first, as they did every year. A name rang out through the silence. Odile Quintanilla. A frail, terrified woman made her way to the stage while an unrecognizable feeling shot through my body. That was my last name. It is not a common last name. It had to mean something. When I asked my mother after, she burst into tears. She said she would explain everything later. I did not like that answer.

I spent four years coming up with theories. I wondered about the secrets my mother held. I wondered what life could have been like if I had known Odile. She died quickly in the Games. I didn't mourn for her, as I did not know her. Instead, I mourned for the life I could have had. My mother explained the story about the affair on my fifteenth birthday. I asked her if Odile’s mother knew about me. My mother said she didn't.

Now, Odile’s mother stares at me across the table. She takes an occasional sip of her tea. Mine has gone cold. I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. I do not specify what I am sorry for. I am sorry for everything. The affair, Odile’s death, my secret existence.

“Don’t be,” she says. She clicks her nails on the rim of her mug. “She was a nightmare. I’m glad she's gone. I don't feel guilty for that.”

I nod. Somehow, I doubt she is telling the truth.