We Drew Straws For My Death

My sister and I both had leukemia. Mine was worse.

There was only enough money in our parents' savings to treat one of us, so they decided to draw straws.

I thought it was just a cruel twist of fate, an unbiased hand of destiny. But then I heard them arguing through the thin bedroom door, their voices raw and strained:

"The longer straw went to Norah! Shes the eldest, and shes the sicker one. We have to treat her first!" my father argued, his voice thick with a desperate logic.

My mothers voice broke, a jagged, agonizing sound. "We have to treat Grace first! Think about how many times Norah has been sick since she was a little girl!"

"But Norah's body... shes always hovered right on the edge of death. We can't let her drag Grace down with her!"

I froze in the hallway.

My mother wasnt wrong. I had been fragile my entire life, constantly slipping from one medical crisis into the next. We used to be a comfortable, middle-class family, but my illness had stripped them of everything, leaving them buried under a mountain of medical debt.

To keep us afloat, my parents each worked three jobs. They pushed themselves to the point of collapse, both of them ending up hospitalized from sheer exhaustion more than once.

Through the crack in the door, I saw my mother cover her face, her shoulders shaking violently as she wept. "If we don't save Grace first, I swear Ill end my own life! I have to save at least one of my girls!"

My fathers voice cracked, a heavy, choked sob. "Helen, youre putting a knife to my throat."

I didnt want to be the knife anymore. To save them from making an impossible choice, I spent weeks hoarding my sleeping pills.

My parents didn't know that even without the straws, I would have stepped aside for Grace.

Though she was my younger sister, Grace had always felt like the older one. She accommodated me in everything, always putting my needs before her own. Whenever I was hospitalized, she was the one who stayed by my bedside, tending to my worst moments, cleaning up after me without a single complaint.

Because of me, she turned down her hard-won acceptance letter to Boston University. A girl with a brilliant future ahead of her chose to stay home, working as a remote customer service representative just so she could be near to care for me.

During the dark nights when the pain became too much and I tried to end it, Grace was always there to pull me back from the edge.

She would kneel at my feet, clutching the fabric of my sweatpants, crying until she couldn't breathe.

"Norah, please. Im begging you, dont do this."

"If you go, what happens to Mom and Dad? What happens to me?"

"As long as you're here, this family has something to fight for. If you leave, we have nothing left."

My parents, too, would weep at my bedside, their tears hot and heavy on my skin, pleading with me to hold on. They told me to trust that medicine was advancing. They begged me to believe I would get better.

If those tears hadn't burned themselves into my heart, I would have surrendered a long time ago.

From the hallway, I heard the front door click open.

My mother called out toward my room, her voice carrying its usual weary edge:

"Norah, your father and I are heading out to work. Dinner is on the table."

I opened my bedroom door just as they walked out into the humid summer evening. Standing on the threshold, I managed a soft smile and called out after them, "Okay. Stay safe out there, Mom, Dad."

That was my last look at them.

My last time calling them Mom and Dad.

My last smile.

My last goodbye.

After tonight, I would no longer be a burden.

I walked over to the dining table, holding the small amber bottle of sleeping pills tightly in my palm.

On the table sat pan-seared salmonGraces favoriteand garlic green beans, which I loved.

I emptied the pills, crushing them into the warm rice.

I ate. I forced down every bite, swallowing the bitter residue of the medication along with the food.

When I couldn't eat another bite, I dragged myself to my bed and lay down. I didn't even have the strength left to write a note. I simply closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me.

I didn't know how much time had passed when the sound of the front door unlocking woke meor rather, woke whatever was left of me.

My fathers heavy, exhausted breathing and my mothers familiar, fretful sigh breathed life back into the quiet house.

Then, my mother saw my empty plate and unwashed fork sitting on the table.

Instantly, her irritation flared. She marched toward my bedroom door, her voice sharp with exhaustion:

"You can't even rinse your own plate? Having leukemia doesn't make you royalty, Norah!"

"Your sister is sick too, and shes online working all day, yet you can't bother to wash a single dish!"

"You don't think about anyone but yourself. Sometimes I think you're trying to drive me to an early grave."

She muttered as she clattered the dishes in the sink, her movements loud and deliberate, radiating resentment.

I sat up, reaching out to open my bedroom door, only to find my hand passing straight through the wood. My vision blurred as I drifted through the paneling, standing suddenly in the middle of the living room.

That was when I realized I was dead.

"Im sorry, Mom," I whispered.

But the apology was nothing more than a vapor, leaving no trace in the air.

Grace walked in just then, her face pale but her expression gentle as she tried to soothe our mother. "Mom, Norah probably just wasn't feeling well. You know she usually helps out when she has the strength."

She managed to coax a small, weary smile onto our mother's face.

"You're the only one who understands," my mother murmured, lowering her voice as she pulled a warm, foil-wrapped burrito from her pursethe cheap, greasy kind from the truck down the street that Grace loved.

"Eat this before your sister sees. Go on, eat it outside."

She gently nudged Grace toward the door.

A dull ache bloomed in my chest.

Normally, my mother never showed favoritism. Poverty had stripped our home of any luxury, and on the rare occasions my parents could afford a treat, they bought two of the exact same thing to ensure everything was perfectly equal. They had never let me see even a shadow of bias.

I reached out, trying to touch my mothers cheek. You don't have to hide it anymore, Mom, I thought. You can love her openly now.

Grace smiled, though her eyes remained tired, and she stepped out onto the porch. My spirit drifted out after her.

She tore into the burrito, eating with a desperate, ravenous hunger, as if she hadn't eaten in days.

I reached out, trying to pat her back. "Slow down, Gracie. Slow down, no ones going to take it from you."

But as she chewed, fat tears began to spill over her eyelashes, dripping onto the foil. She kept eating, swallowing her tears along with the food, her throat working hard.

Panic seized me. "Gracie? What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

She heard nothing.

She finished the food, wiped her eyes quickly, and took a deep, stabilizing breath. Forcing her face into a neutral mask, she opened the door and walked back inside.

My parents had set the table with a simple dinner of broth and bread.

"Dinner's ready, Your Highness!" my mother called toward my room, her tone laced with bitterness.

Three minutes passed. No movement.

My father rubbed his lower back, wincing at the chronic ache, and walked over to knock on my door. "Norah? Come eat, sweetheart."

Still, silence.

Grace tried next, her voice playful. "Hey, sleeping beauty, dinner's on the table!"

Nothing.

My mothers patience snapped. She yanked off her apron, marching toward my room, her voice rising to a crescendo of anger:

"Are you giving us the silent treatment because we're treating your sister first? You drew the short straw, Norah! It was luck, pure luck!"

"Your sister has sacrificed everything for you! How can you be selfish enough to punish this entire family over a drawing?"

She reached for the doorknob, her posture tense, ready for a confrontation. My father stood behind her, assuming I was throwing a tantrum, and called through the wood:

"Norah, we don't have the money. If we did, we would have put both of you in the hospital tomorrow. You know that."

Grace quickly stepped between them, trying to calm them down.

Even though I knew they couldn't see or hear me, I cried out, defending myself to the empty air: "Im not angry! I swear Im not!"

Grace opened the door, slipping inside to mediate.

On the bed, my body lay beneath the heavy quilt, curled on my side, my face turned toward the drywall.

Grace sat on the edge of the mattress, glancing over at the still form. My spirit tensed, terrified she would realize the truth and be traumatizedyet equally terrified that if they didn't find me soon, the summer heat would do unspeakable things to my remains.

"Come on, Norah. Don't be mad at us," Grace coaxed, keeping her voice light.

She only looked at the blanket for a brief second before looking away. She didn't notice the absolute stillness of my chest.

Instead, she smiled, her voice taking on a forced, bright quality. "I have great news. I bought a scratch-off ticket today and won fifty thousand dollars!"

"Norah, we can go to the hospital together now. We can both get the treatment."

She was smiling, but her eyes were hollow, filled with a quiet, devastating grief.

My heart hammered in my chest. She hadn't won any lottery.

At that moment, the screen of her phone lit up in her hand. A text message banner popped up:

We're getting the marriage license tomorrow. The check will clear the second we sign.

The text was from Brody Harrington.

I screamed, throwing myself in front of Grace, trying to block her view of the screen. "What are you doing? Are you insane? You can't marry Brody!"

Brody Harrington was dying of pancreatic cancer. The doctors had given him six months.

Before his diagnosis, he had been a notorious playboy, his reputation dragged through every gutter in the city. He was the Harringtons' only son, and his wealthy family was desperate. They had put up flyers all over town, offering fifty thousand dollars to any young woman willing to marry him and try to conceive an heir before he passed. The flyers had stayed up for three months; no respectable girl would sell her life to a dying, cruel man for any amount of money.

"Gracie, please! Im already dead! You don't have to ruin your life for me!"

I wept, my voice tearing in my throat, but she sat there, her painted-on smile never wavering.

I fell to my knees, grabbing at the fabric of her jeans, shaking her legs with all the strength my spectral form could muster. She felt nothing.

"The doctor said if we start early, the survival rate is really high," Grace whispered to the silent room. "We're going to be okay, Norah."

She reached out and gave my arm a gentle shake through the heavy quilt. "I won fifty thousand dollars. Aren't you happy for me?"

My parents walked into the room, seeing Grace practically begging for a response while I remained silent beneath the blankets.

My mothers anger flared instantly. "Norah! Your sister is practically on her knees, and youre still ignoring her?"

"You are unbelievable! Grace does nothing but think of you, and this is how you treat her?"

"Do you even have a heart? Throwing a fit over a stupid drawing!"

Grace stood up, gently pulling our mother back, begging her to stop.

But my mother stood in the doorway, her face flushed with anger, pointing a trembling finger at the shape under the blanket. "I am asking you one last time. Are you coming out to eat or not?"

My father, wanting to keep the peace, reached over and patted my shoulder through the quilt. "Norah, youre usually so sensible. Your mother and I have to get to work soon. Just get up and eat. Don't make her worry."

To pay for my treatments, they lived on barely four hours of sleep a night. During the day, my father worked construction while my mother cleaned houses. Late at night, they packaged wholesale goods at a local warehouse. Except for the days of my major surgeries, they worked every single day of the year, even holidays.

I stood beside them, my face drenched in tears, suffocated by guilt.

When the blanket didn't move, my mother threw her hands up. "Fine! Starve then! I work myself to the bone every day just to come home to this attitude!"

Grace gently led her out into the living room. "Let her cool down, Mom. I'll bring some food in for her later."

Because they were running late for their shift, my parents didn't push any further.

At the dinner table, Grace lied to them, spinning the story of the fifty-thousand-dollar lottery win.

My parents believed her. For the first time in years, a genuine, breathless joy filled the room. They held each other, weeping, thinking that maybe, just maybe, God had finally looked down on us with mercy.

After dinner, they got ready to leave for the night shift.

My father groaned as he stood up, his spine popping with a sickening sound. Grace winced, begging him to stay home for just one night to rest his back.

Years of heavy labor had bent his six-foot frame, and at forty-five, his hair was entirely white. He looked twenty years older than his age, and the dust from the construction sites had given him a chronic, hacking cough.

Seeing him ruined like this because of my illness made me feel like an anchor dragging them into the depths.

Above the couch hung their old wedding photo. My father had been so handsome, his posture straight and proud; my mother had been radiant, her eyes bright with hope. Now, they were grey-faced, wearing faded, thrift-store clothes.

My father ignored Grace's pleas, offering a weak smile. "It's fine, Gracie. Just a little stiff."

My mother called out loudly, making sure her voice carried into my bedroom:

"We were supposed to have tonight off, but your father insisted on picking up an extra shift so we can buy Norah that winter coat she needed. We are killing ourselves for you girls!"

I threw myself against the front door, spreading my arms as if I could physically block them. "Im dead! Im already dead! You don't have to work tonight!" I screamed until my throat burned.

They walked right through my chest, their hurried footsteps fading down the stairwell.

Graces laptop chimed from her roomher supervisor reminding her to log on.

She quickly set a plate of food on my nightstand. "Norah, I have to log on for my shift. Here's your dinner. Please eat."

Then, she hurried into the tiny, windowless closet she called her bedroom. It was barely wide enough for a twin mattress, but she had moved in there years ago so I could have the larger bedroom to accommodate my medical equipment.

My spirit sat beside her as her fingers flew across the keyboard, answering customer inquiries like a machine. She didn't even take a break to drink water.

She was only a year younger than me, but she had carried the weight of an entire family on her shoulders.

By the time her shift ended in the early hours of the morning, our parents had dragged themselves home. They were too tired to speak, collapsing onto their bed with their boots still on.

My mother, half-asleep, mumbled to my father, "Did Norah ever eat?"

My father was already asleep and didn't answer.

Within seconds, my mother fell silent too.

I hovered over them, sobbing quietly. No matter how angry she was, she still worried about whether I had eaten.

The next morning, my cousin was getting married in the suburbs, and my parents were expected to attend the afternoon reception.

Grace woke up early and put on a simple white sundress. I recognized it instantlyit was the dress Luke had bought her years ago. She kept it wrapped in tissue paper like a holy relic.

My mother came into my room to say goodbye. "We're heading to the wedding now. Your father and I will be back tonight."

Then she saw the untouched plate of food on the nightstand, the film of grease cold and congealed. Her face hardened.

She stepped over to the bed and slapped my thigh hard through the blanket. "What is wrong with you! Who are you trying to punish by starving yourself? We told you both of you are getting treated! What more do you want from us?"

Grace ran in, pulling her away.

My mother, furious, reached over and unplugged the window AC unit. "Running the AC all daydo you think electricity is free? You've let this illness turn you into a spoiled brat!"

I never kept the AC on to save money. I had only turned it on that last night because I wanted to go quietly, comfortably.

Grace quickly ushered our mother out of the apartment.

My spirit followed them to the reception hall.

When the wedding ended, my Aunt Diane pulled my parents into a quiet corner of the venue.

She took my mothers hand, her face tight with a solemn, practical concern. "Helen, we're sisters, so Im going to speak plainly. I talked to a specialist. Norah's prognosis is terminal. Instead of letting her slip away and leaving you with nothing but debt, you should consider putting her on the organ donor registry. If you sign the papers, the hospital network offers a massive stipend. It would pay for Grace's treatment and secure your retirement."

I froze beside my mother.

Part of me expected her to consider it. It made sense. But my mother violently yanked her hand away, her face turning crimson with rage.

"How dare you!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the small room. "She is my daughter! What did she ever do to you that you would stand there and pray for her death?"

"I have never asked you for a single dime, and youre standing here trying to sell my child's body?"

She pointed a shaking finger at her sister's face. "How much did they offer you to pitch this to me? You are a monster! Don't you ever call yourself my sister again!"

She didn't just scream; she severed the relationship right then and there.

She and my father walked all the way back to the city to save the four dollars on subway fare, my mother crying the entire three-hour walk.

My spirit walked between them, holding my mothers trembling hand on one side and my fathers on the other. The weight of their grief and love was suffocating.

When we finally got back to the apartment, Grace was in her tiny room, crying silently as she typed a message.

Brodys mother had gone back on her word. She was only giving Grace twenty-five thousand dollars now; the remaining twenty-five thousand wouldn't be paid until Grace was confirmed pregnant.

This meant Grace couldn't afford to start her own treatments alongside mine.

Hearing the front door, Grace quickly dried her eyes and went out to greet our parents. She brought a basin of warm water for my father's feet, and as she knelt to massage my mother's swollen calves, she spoke softly:

"Mom, let's have Norah go first. Dr. Shepherd is the lead oncologist, and if we both go in at the same time, he won't be able to oversee both of our surgeries. I want Norah to have the best doctor. I can wait a few weeks."

The lie was seamless, delivered with a gentle, reassuring smile.

My mother pulled Grace into her arms, weeping with a mixture of relief and guilt. "My sweet Gracie. You are always so good."

Grace smiled, her white teeth showing in the dim light. "Im your girl, Mom. I've got us."

I stood in the corner, the waves of grief and helplessness crashing over me until I felt like I was drowning.

The next morning, my parents packed our worn duffel bags for the hospital.

Grace and my mother walked to my bedroom door to wake me.

As the door swung open, a heavy, sweet odor drifted into the hallway. They both frowned slightly, but assumed it was just the summer heat trapping the stuffy air in the room.

"Rise and shine, big sister!" Grace called out, her voice bright. "Today's the day!"

My mother stepped in, her voice softening. "Come on, Norah. Don't be mad anymore."

Grace smiled and pulled back the heavy quilt.

The stench of decay hit them like a physical blow.

Graces smile froze. Her face drained of all color, turning a horrifying, translucent white.