This is my second published story. My novel deals with many of the themes in this story--suicide, sisters, grieving and not grieving. In fact a lot of my writing has to do with survivors of traumatic events and how each chooses to cope. Here are the first few pages.

This story was published in Baltimore Review.    

                                                       Jane in Florida

    Black hair, white skin. Jane is like one of her own charcoal sketches, Wendy thinks--sharp lines for limbs, a loop for a head. Even her dark one-piece seems brushed on with a simple flick of paint. 

"She's changed," Wendy says, readjusting herself in the beach chair.

"How do you mean?" Ray, on his back, wears Bermuda shorts and sunglasses. Next to him Outside Magazine is opened to a page showing a woman bungee jumping off a bridge.

"She keeps staring at me. It's annoying."

"Maybe she wants to talk."

Last month when Jane decided to enter Wendy's life again--calling out of the blue, even              arranging a trip down there--she kept saying things like, "We'll talk when I get there," and "It'll be nice to talk to someone who knows where I'm coming from."  The problem is that Wendy doesn't know where Jane is coming from. She hasn't known where Jane has been coming from for three years now, ever since their mother died. A week after the funeral, Jane folded her easel, tucked her hair behind her ears, and said, "I can’t stay in this town any more."  This town--meaning Miami, where the very word ocean, to Wendy, meant suicide. Full of pills, their mother walked straight in, and a day later washed ashore, the peach silk dress twisted around her like seaweed.

After Jane left, she called a few times--the last time from her New York apartment. "I think I’m ready to come down for a visit," she said.

Well I'm not ready for you, Wendy wanted to say. I'm living my life just fine without you.

"Three years is too long," Jane said. "After everything that's happened." And then there was a long silence.

"God I’m uncomfortable," Wendy says, switching positions.

Ever since last night at the airport when Jane said, "Oh look, you really are pregnant!" Wendy’s been convinced that at any moment her water will burst and seconds later the baby will slide out--a squished face with slimy arms and a shriek so grating all Wendy can do is cover her ears to keep from screaming herself.  

"Come here." Ray gets up and, on his knees, crawls to Wendy and maneuvers her onto the sand. Together, they fall over lazily. She sighs. She feels like a sea turtle washed ashore. Ray lies on his side, his mouth next to her ear, arm across her chest. His breath makes a little whistle sound as he breathes in. It hypnotizes her--the way the sun gets hot and not so hot as it flits in and out of the clouds, and the waves rushing up, then falling back.

Moments later, she feels the shock of cold water on her calf.

Jane is above them, wringing out her hair.  Last night Wendy almost didn't recognize her sister as she came off the plane. Something was washed away from her face--her mouth seemed looser, her eyes softer. And her hair glided down her shoulders and arms like water. But the gaze was what really got to Wendy. It wasn't piercing or harsh or longing the way it used to be. It was calm--almost alarming. It settled on Wendy's face and seemed like it was never going to leave.

  Then Jane lunged forward to hug her, but Wendy stiffened. At eight-and-a-half months, she       explained, it was hard to embrace.