“Delphine always wanted to pilot her father’s plane and when he forgot his keys on her tenth birthday, she knew that taking off would be easy.”
Agnes smiled as she read, the notebook trembling slightly in her slim hands.
“Another Delphine story? I thought you’d moved on.” I sipped my tea, grown cold in its cup.
She held up her finger for silence. “Wait. This one is different.” She glanced up, a flash of blue eye. She continued to read.
My sister had written Delphine stories for years, beginning back when we were girls. Delphine at the Museum, Delphine at the Zoo. Amusing tales about a girl who goes on adventures, a girl who shared many features with Agnes herself.
These past few years, her stories had taken a tragic turn. The most recent ones involved death, loss, even dismemberment—for example, when Delphine lost a hand while cutting off a chicken’s head. Agnes wrote more and more of them, sometimes as many as three or four a day.
The doctors said that writing stories would help her get well, perhaps well enough to come home. I assumed they had never read them.