Panic.

“Do you want anything? Do you want more tea? Can I get you a clean t-shirt? I’ll go get you one.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to clean out your a/c? The filter is must be dirty, there’s no cold air coming through.”

Isabelle tested various locations around Sydney’s East Village studio, waving her arms about for any sign of cold air. Sydney sat on the sofa with an icepack to her burning forehead. Droplets of ice water slithered down her cheek.

“It’s fine, leave it.”

“How about I get you some soup? I’d get you a coffee but we need to keep you off the caffeine, gotta watch that heart rate. What kind of soup do you like again? Carrot and coriander? Oeh I could go over to Whole Foods and get you that roasted paprika soup, remember the one we had at Thanksgiving?”

“I’m fine. I don’t need any soup and I have my own coffee maker.”

Sydney nodded over to her Nespresso machine. She had saved up an entire year, she had wanted that specific brand, no needed that specific brand and nothing less because if it’s good enough for George Clooney it would be good enough for her. No more diluted American junk, only blissful sips of pure Italian stud-accino. On purchase day, she wore her faux Prada shirt because it was kind of Italian and the swipe of her credit card felt like an entry ticket into a new and improved world of lemon sorbet and Mediterranean romance. And then she found out that the coffee cups you need to insert into the machine don’t exactly come for free – they cost a fortune. There was no knock-off supermarket brand, there was no special deal. Sydney embarked on the long subway trip down to Brooklyn hoping Target would offer her an alternative but she returned home empty handed. It felt like she had spent all her money on a beautiful Beverly Hills mansion and now she didn’t have money left to put anything in it. Coffee with Clooney was something she couldn’t afford on her struggling playwrights salary. At five coffee’s a day, her addictive intake would burn a deep dark hole into her wallet. The machine just sat there, glimmering and new, even enjoying the occasional clean without having to produce a single drop. As depressing as it was, Sydney liked having it and convinced herself it was a designer investment – it added a splash of glamour to her rickety kitchen.

Isabelle had already noticed the unusually spotless machine and the lack of cups and other accessories that go with it. She had already made a mental note to buy Sydney some for Christmas and maybe some nice saucers and fancy spoons and a froth maker. As she walked down imaginary isles of the Soho Nespresso store, Sydney noticed that her vision hadn’t quite made a full recovery. The items in her studio drifted in and out of place, at times merging into one flat wall and popping out again like rebellious children in an assembly line – the Warhol poster, the woolly rug, the spices in the kitchen, all swimming in a lazy summer current. It reminded her of a scene in Disney’s “The Sword in the Stone” where Merlin sends all his kitchen ornaments flying into the air with his wand and she was young Arthur, just standing there, a little dazed.

“Your hands are still shaking.”

Isabelle lowered her eyes onto Sydney’s fingers. Her eyeballs emitted laser beams, scanning across her sister’s shaky skin.

“They always do, for a while, afterwards.”

“Jeez Sydney, how often does this happen?”

She wasn’t being helpful, she wasn’t being helpful at all. All Sydney wanted to do was relax and not have to think about it, about how it feels, about how it scares her, about how helpless she is when … Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Isabelle continued to walk around the studio, the sound of her clackety heels pounded against Sydney’s head. Clack. Clack. Clack. Her fluttering movements sent waves of nausea soaring through her belly. Her nose started to itch, she wanted to scream.

SIT THE FUCK DOWN OR I’M GONNA PUKE

But something like that would only lead to an unwanted dramatic event where Isabelle would make a terrible scene and start crying and demand an apology and they’d still be here tomorrow, acting out their parts as dysfunctional sister. Sydney let her do her thing, whatever it was, running her hands along the curtains, fluffing up the pillows on the sofa, straightening a framed picture of Sydney’s first sold ticket. Then Isabelle stopped and with a very serious face, a face that would often make Sydney giggle, she sat down beside her on the sofa.

“Why don’t you come and stay with us for a while?”

Syndey swallowed vomit. The thought of West Chesire, the thought of being outside Manhattan and away from work, the thought of being stranded in a silent suburb, the thought of Isabelle’s self-inflated husband (someone she based several of her characters on), Isabelle’s soppy casseroles that gave her stomach cramps, the thought of her snotty kids and their stupid violin recitals. No, just no. Sydney shook her head. No.

“I just don’t like the idea of you being alone right now.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Fine, fine, fine. Is that all you’re going to say today?”

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Sydney focused on her tea, she focused on the hot steam, on the chamomile scent, and then she made a mistake. She looked over to her sister. Isabelle’s face carried that same stern expression their father had. Once his face took that particular form it would last for days. He would sit at the table, silent, sulky and self-righteous and there was nothing you could do to wipe that look away. Sydney would fantasize about grabbing her dinner plate and smashing it against his face, flattening it out like a cartoon pancake. She wanted very much to do that to her sister. His face and hers had morphed into one, bridging a generation gap, making her feel that same sense of worthlessness. A feeling that doesn’t alter with time, it doesn’t fade as some feelings do. It remains unchanged, sitting inside, a tumor, invisible to the eye, sitting and waiting to erupt.

Whatever Isabelle had to say with that god damn self-important look; it wasn’t going to be good.

“I think you need to see a doctor.”

Irritable bubbles burst in the pit of Sydney’s stomach. A slight twitch began to beat below her eye. She tried to rub it away; it wouldn’t stop. She placed her mug down on the table and plucked at the frays of her ripped jeans. “Maybe YOU need to see a doctor.”

“Oh, that’s really mature.”

Silence entered the studio, it wafted around the space, it filled up every corner – it became a competition. Who could hold their silence the longest? Which sister would be the first to break? Sydney began to analyze the tense situation. Ultimately, she wanted Isabelle gone but Isabelle could sit there for hours. Isabelle was the queen of silence. Isabelle was going to win.

Screw that.

“It’s just...embarrassing, okay. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Syd…”

Isabelle placed her arm on Sydney’s shoulder. Sydney brushed it away.

You don’t get it. Do you know how stupid I feel? When I’m there, I can feel it happen, I know it’s happening to me but I can’t stop it. I get scared and the fear becomes sickening and it rises up and I feel dizzy and I start shaking and suddenly all the voices around me morph into this one big monotone buzz and all I can hear is buzz buzz buzz and all the faces begin to blur and I can’t see them but I know they’re all staring at me and then I look up and I see the sky and it’s beating like an open heart and I think about how the weight of it, the weight of the entire world is going to crash down and suck me in as it falls and falls and falls and honest to God, in that moment, I believe I am going to die and I try to calm myself down, I tell myself to cut the crap, to take deep breaths but before I know it I’m clinging onto the pavement, drooling and crying and having people call an ambulance. Do you know how fucking embarrassing that is? I’m 28 years old, I grew up in this city, I walk these streets every single day and now, now I can’t go anywhere without thinking I’m going to die. Do you know how pathetic I am?

Of course that’s what she should have told her sister. Instead she mustered a faint murmur: “You wouldn’t understand.”

She plucked at the tear in her jeans. She spread her fingers in the gap and tore it further and further until her knee popped out completely. She got up and went over to the record player, knees still trembling. Beethoven’s 8th Symphony was sitting obediently, waiting to be played. Perfect: her sister hated classical music.

“You can get help. There’s medication.”

Sydney’s eyelids slammed shut. She exhaled a dragon like breath.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Sydney?”

“Get. Out.”

“Sydney, there’s nothing wrong with medication. You’re suffering from anxiety, a lot of people are, it’s really common and there’s some really effective medication to help you –”

‘I said get out.”

“Sydney, seriously? What is this about?”

Sydney leaned against a set of draws, her eyes still closed. Isabelle tried to understand; she tried to pierce through the back of her sister’s head. She knew what was happening, she just didn’t understand it but she knew, she always knew because this is what their problems always came down to, the eternal rift between the two sisters, a raging river where the past lingered, hidden and dangerous, like jagged rocks beneath the calm surface.

“Sydney, she died twenty years ago.”

Sydney turned the music up. Why was she still talking? Why was she still here? Music. Louder. Music. LOUDER. Forte-piano-forte. She stopped listening to her even though she was trying her best to be loud, it was amusing, her voice screeched over the climatic orchestra but Sydney wasn’t listening, she wasn’t listening, she wasn’t listening, she wasn’t listening

and then, the closing statement –

“I wish you would grow up.”

Isabelle snatched her handbag from the coffee table and walked out the door slamming it shut with an echoing thud.

Possessed by the bellowing music that bubbled through her blood, Sydney ran to the ice pack. With all the force she could gather in her quivering arms – she threw it at the closed door.

“YOU BITCH!”