One of Us Is Next: The Sequel to One of Us Is Lying

Phoebe

Thursday, March 26

When I get home my mother is out, at another Golden Rings wedding planner get-together. She’s left a note for me on the kitchen island: Emma’s still not feeling well. Owen has eaten & there are leftovers in the fridge. Can you make sure he does his homework?

I set the note down with a sigh. I’d told my friends I wasn’t going to say anything to Mom about what just happened at Café Contigo and Callahan Park, and I meant it. But a not-small part of me is tired of feeling like my own parent. It’s not my mom’s fault, I know that. She’s doing the best she can. But I ache when I think of how I used to crawl into her lap when I was little and spill all my problems. It felt so good, getting them out.

Those were kid-sized problems, though. Broken toys and bruised knees. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I tried to explain the past six weeks of my life. Or Emma’s. Whatever’s going on with my sister, one thing is clear: she doesn’t have anyone she feels like she can confide in, either.

It sucks we can’t be that for each other.

The apartment is quiet, except the faint video game sounds coming from Owen’s room and the hum of the dishwasher. The one and only thing about our apartment that’s better than our old house is that the dishwasher actually works. We used to have to hand-wash everything before loading it into the dishwasher, which always struck my dad as funny. “It’s the world’s most expensive drying rack,” he’d complain. Every once in a while he’d try to fix it, but all of his usual handiness deserted him when it came to that dishwasher. The last time he’d tried, water ended up pouring out of a pipe in our basement closet.

“We should just get a new dishwasher,” I’d told him as I helped position plastic beach buckets on the closet floor to catch the water. I didn’t think about what things cost, back then. A new dishwasher didn’t mean much more to me than new sneakers.

“Never,” Dad said bracingly. “This dishwasher and I are locked in a battle of wills. One day, I will prevail.”

Now I realize that we couldn’t afford it. After he died we could suddenly afford everything—Mom took us to Disneyland, even though we were too old except Owen. She marched us through rides during the day, and cried into her hotel room pillow at night. We had new clothes and phones, and she got a new car so Emma and I could have hers. Everything was perfect and shiny and we didn’t want any of it, not really, so we didn’t mind when it stopped.

I kick the base of our quiet, efficient dishwasher. I hate it.

I’m not hungry, so I open the cabinet beneath the sink and conduct my new ritual: checking Mom’s alcohol supply. Last night, a lone bottle of tequila remained. Today it’s gone. It’s sort of shocking that Mom hasn’t caught on to what’s been happening with Emma, but then again, Emma has all of us well-trained to trust that she’ll always do what she’s supposed to. If I didn’t share a room with her, I wouldn’t know either. And I wouldn’t have this sick, worried feeling in my stomach every time I walk into the apartment. I never know what I’m going to find, or how to make any of it better.

This has to be the end, though, now that Emma’s gone through all of Mom’s alcohol. My introverted, straitlaced sister can’t possibly have connections for getting more. With a sigh, I shut the cabinet door and head for our room to check on her. Chances are, she’s left a mess for me to clean up again.

When I crack our door, the first thing that hits me is the sound—a low, gurgling noise. “Emma?” I ask, pushing through. “You okay?”

She’s lying on her bed, twitching. At first I think she’s breathing in mucus, like she has a terrible cold, but then it hits me—she’s choking. Her eyes are closed, her lips blue, and as I watch in horror her entire body starts to convulse. “Emma! Emma, no!”

The word sounds like it’s being ripped out of me. I lunge forward to grab her shoulders, almost tripping over the tequila bottle on the floor, and haul her onto her side. She’s still making the gurgling sound, but now it’s mixed in with a wheezing noise. “Emma!” I shriek, hitting her back in a panic. Then her entire body contracts and a stream of vomit pours from her mouth, soaking both my shirt and her sheet.

“Phoebe?” Owen peers around the door. “What’s happening?” His mouth falls open when he sees Emma. “What…what’s wrong with her?”

Emma gags once, then flops motionless on the bed. I prop her up so her head is angled on the pillow and vomit can continue to trickle out of her slack mouth. “Get my phone. It’s on the island. Call 911. Tell them our address and that someone here has alcohol poisoning. Now,” I add, when Owen doesn’t move. He darts out of the room as I grab the edge of Emma’s sheet and try to clean out her mouth. The sour stench of vomit finally hits me, and my stomach rolls as I feel wetness seeping through the front of my T-shirt.

“How could you do this?” I whisper.

Emma’s chest is rising and falling, but slowly. Her lips are still tinged blue. I lift her hand and feel for her pulse beneath the clammy skin of her wrist. It hardly seems to move, especially in contrast to how fast mine is racing. “Owen! Don’t hang up! Bring me the phone!” I yell.

Owen returns to the bedroom, clutching my phone to his ear. “This lady says someone’s coming,” he whimpers. “Why is she poisoned?” he adds, his voice quavering as he stares at Emma’s limp figure. Her hair is hanging in her face, too close to her mouth, and I push it back. “Who poisoned her?”

“Nobody,” I grit out. Not literally, anyway. I can’t speak to whoever or whatever has been poisoning her mind these past few weeks, but I’m starting to think it’s not Derek. If Emma managed to avoid falling apart after she found out he and I slept together, surely she wouldn’t nearly kill herself over a few unanswered Instagram messages. There has to be something else going on here. I reach my hand out to my brother. “Give me the phone.”

He does, and I hold it to my ear. “Hello, help, I don’t know what to do next,” I say shakily. “I got her on her side and she threw up so she’s not choking anymore, but she’s also not moving. She’s hardly breathing and I can’t, I don’t know—”

“All right, honey. You did good. Now listen so I can help you.” The voice on the other end is no-nonsense but soothing. “An ambulance is on the way. I’m gonna ask you a few questions, and then we’ll know what to do until they get there. We’re in this together, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. Tears start slipping down my cheeks, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. I try to focus on the woman’s voice, instead of fixating on the two questions that keep rattling around in my brain.

Mine: How could you do this?

And Owen’s: Who poisoned her?