The Nice One

Layla held her forehead in her hands. “Mama, I don’t remember what your password is. Sarah was the one who made the account.” Her heart winced at the statement. It was getting too easy, these days, to talk about her sister in the past tense.

In the months since her sister’s passing, Layla had been sent an abundance of information on grief. Articles, youtube videos, whatsapp forwards: if there was a piece of media that existed about death, the chances are it was somewhere in Layla’s phone. None of them had the answers she really needed, though. How do you patiently explain how to reset a password, when you’ve never been the patient one? How do you talk to your mom, when your sister was the only reason you visited home anyways? How could it be possible, for someone you love so much, to go from an is, to a was.

“Layla I need to get into the account, what do I do?” her mother responded, breaking her out of her thoughts. “Do you see a link that says forgot password on your page? Click that, type in your email, and then hit the ‘reset your password’ button in the email they send you.” Layla could hear her mother fumbling on the other end of the line. “I don’t understand, I don’t see the button you mean.” “Ok, well what do you want me to do? It’s right there, I don’t know how else to explain it” Layla snapped. “Sarah always explained things to me nicely. Why can’t you be nicer to me” her mother retorted.

There’s a reason she took care of this stuff and not me, Layla wanted to respond. But she didn’t. Her hand was reaching for her keys before the words left her mouth. “I’m on my way. I’ll just do it in person.”

_______

Layla opened the door to her mother’s house, the freezing air giving her goosebumps all over her body. She walked towards the thermostat. “62 degrees? Are they crazy?” She mumbled underneath her breath. “We don’t need to turn the heat on yet” her mother responded, emerging out of seemingly nowhere. Layla bit her tongue. Sure, it was mid December and 40 degrees outside, but of course, her mom hadn’t thought to turn the heat on yet.

Each week since Sarah’s passing, a new responsibility emerged for Layla. Password holder, thermostat manager: every forgotten thought of her mother revealed another role her sister had silently taken on for her.

“That shirt looks nice on you” her mother offered, in an attempt to start on a better foot. The words, meant as kindness, felt sour in Layla’s heart. After all, old habits die hard. She was wearing her sister’s shirt.

____

Layla shifted awkwardly on the couch. The password had been reset and the heating had been turned on. With her daughterly obligations complete, she wrung her hands, unknowing of how to exist in her mother’s presence without duties to fulfill. Without the buffer of her sister. Her mother broke the silence first. “I don’t know what to say without her here.” Layla paused. “This is actually her shirt. I borrowed it like, a year ago”. Her mother let out a giggle. “Can you imagine how angry she would be if she saw you wearing it?” Layla’s hands relaxed, and before she knew it she was uncontrollably laughing, overtaken with the thought of her sister’s ghost hovering over them, demanding her clothes back. “Did she even know that you borrowed it?” Layla laughed even harder. “It’s not stealing if she left it at my apartment!” She protested. Layla’s mother collapsed in laughter at this admission, tears streaming down her face. Layla leaned over and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. “You’ve always been like that, you know.” her mother said. “Like what?” Layla questioned.

“You could always make us laugh.”